Scars
by TeaLogic
Summary: After delivering Patience Gibbs to Connor's doorstep, Aveline is persuaded to stay and help mentor her. The results of the collaboration prove oddly useful to all. [Post AC3/Liberation/AvelineDLC. Connorline.]
1. Connor: Haunted Ash

These oneshots will alternate in POVs between Connor and Aveline.

And please note that this will be a slow burner. A very slow burner. You better get a blanket :P

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**Connor: Haunted Ash**

He looks at it every day; stares hard at the patchwork of furiously tangled skin that rakes across his stomach until his head becomes dizzy and sick. His body burns consistently. Not just with the physical pain, which catches him regularly, but its more the memories that singe his blood and score into his mind. He feels like ash. Haunted ash. And this fire only lessons a fraction with each passing day. The heat is slow to draw out of his body and sets to reignite at the slightest thing, an old painting of a battle that hangs on the wall and the sunset casting the kitchen window and bathing the room orange. Then there are things he just can't seem to throw away. Mementoes like necklaces, feathers, hidden blades- that diary. _That damn diary_. An epitome of his mistakes. Learning that his father's whole being actually existence in ink and paper and not what he told him. Of course, now that he's not here anymore there is nothing Connor can do with that ridiculous book but he still has it on his desk.

The Homesteaders have been there to catch him since he returned. Indulge him with their need for protection, and it is ever clear that protection will always be needed. He's begun to recognise that he can be himself the most at the Homestead, so he stays there longer than ever before. There are games with the men and chats with the women. He can play properly with the children, who seem to be growing up a lot quicker than time allows.

But it is only half of him. There is the Brotherhood. Still. Still they remain at his side. Never criticising him for a second and congratulating him on purging the Templars. They still want his guidance and for the life of him he cannot figure out why, but he sends letters to them. Sometimes he can be drawn to the cities and he sees that there are people who need him there, who want direction and purpose. He speaks comfortingly to them, trying to reassure them in the face of this dangerous aftermath of history. He has to turn away when he sees the look of ultimate trust in their faces. The responsibility swells within and becomes so large that it threatens to smother him. He never stays for long now, makes excuses to leave as soon as he arrives. The assassins look confused, unsure, but he cannot stay. He's proved his failure more than once and he cannot understand why-

-but he still orders men to their deaths because people need to be killed. The targets have become more cruel, more inhumane. Their swift elimination is key to trying to overturn the giant tyranny that remains and threatens to undo the work he's already done. He has avoided killing in person, however. Like the brotherhood itself, he feels like he no longer knows how to do things correctly. He feels like he could not give them any parting words if he did kill again. He's tongue tied in that respect.

(He regrets, if he was going to pick _something _to regret, that he never said anything to Charles Lee.)

He orders death and destruction but responsibility is uglier than both. He cares not about slave traders or politicians or serial murderers that curse his name and threaten to kill him in various ways. What keeps him awake at night is the question of leadership. How is he supposed to lead, being barely through his twenties and still so desperately in need of guidance? How is supposed to lead when he was cut in half so easily and has had to redraw his physical limits almost every day?

It is now, in the harshest sense, that he sees the wisdom of Achilles' words. He can't have him at his side anymore, as logic dictates. So he now makes do with the bones at the Homestead. He finally digs out those supremely old and dusty books that Achilles once set for his instruction. Thick, heavily bounded tomes that he was supposed to read at night but they ended up kicked under his bed. They were tales of one's who were before, apparently. Ones who uncorked bottles, pursued arks and hunted the eyes of the world. Fascinating, but still nothing but pointless riddles for an exhausted teenage Ratonhnhaké:ton who was only anxious to shape the present world. Now a grown man who can only call himself Connor Kenway is desperation for distraction. To wallow in something other than his misery and the misery of Achilles and his father as well. It's probably not how his mentor would have wanted him to take up his studies once more. But he's not here to give instruction anymore and Connor has no other way to learn.

With his new vocation and the brotherhood seemingly going smoothly, the pain dulls for a little while. But then one afternoon Connor dates a letter and sees that it's the spring of 1784 and falls apart in his kitchen. A burst of anger makes him knock a plate onto the floor and it crashes violently though the still air. It's hard to breathe and he's too hot, scar flaring. His vision blurs and he's terrified at the sound of his heart thumping hard, pounding in his ears.

His control, curse the whole thing, only allows him for one small cry, a whimper really. A child's expression of grief. He hands tear through his hair, which is still a little short, but grown back since he killed Charles Lee. He demands himself to keep still, demands focus as he draws in a sharp breath. All his life, he's wanted charge of his own actions. He has it now, but feels out of control. Time is unravelling under his fingers, running away from him. Who has he been kidding- himself? He feels he is no one even in his own idea of being. He's just a man with a scar who has only been scraping by and just about conscious to the world. It's been a year, an entire year. A year since he drove a blade into Lee's heart and ended everything, and since then he has just been.

He calms, however. Birds chirp outside and Hunter can be heard running around yelling at them. Beyond, the Homesteaders go about their daily lives. He needs to do the same. It's been a year and what he's been doing, living half a life, cannot continue. He vows it. That day he makes arrangements to go to Boston, tearing up the letter. He'll deliver his instructions to Dobby in person- he will do it all in person from now on. He'll stay with his assassins longer, teach for longer. Begin to properly assess and observe what he's built so far and make it so much better.

What is it that keeps him going? Maybe it's the motion of the world moving so fast that he cannot help but be dragged along. Or it might be his stubbornness; the refusal to lock himself away, like Achilles, or to passively ignore his nature and past like his father. Connor doesn't really care to figure out what it is. Only that pursuit of truth and freedom is in his blood and he cannot pour it out of his system. It will remain there, always. He must engage with it before it can fester into something dangerous.

He manages to get to Boston within a week, and it welcomes him like an old friend. Dobby is delighted when she finds he stays for more than the average two or three days. He gets information about a young woman who is a potential recruit and unusually, decides to pursue the lead himself. Her age at sixteen is what concerns him the most. Young, without guidance or protection if the detail is correct and Connor knows how dangerous that can be.

He comes back to life a year after the death of Lee. The reward for his determination is ultimately a spectacular punch to the face and two broken fingers. Needless as it is to say, he underestimated the wilfulness and the right arm of Patience Gibbs.

He admires her wholeheartedly.


	2. Aveline: A Written Friendship

**Aveline: A Written Friendship**

The first thing she does after shutting the door is stretch, arms reaching above her head. Her shoulder muscles twinge and her back protests but she persists. Her leap of faith today had been a fraction clumsy. That move was both so delicate and dangerous that the slightest interlude of a mistake could have fatal consequences. Today, when she had to escape an area after dealing with a nasty target, she was lucky to have years of training and experience to prevent such a disastrous turn. She only landed a little too hard on her back. There will be a bruise to show for it tomorrow.

She strides across her quarters, the tension leaving her body as she takes in the familiar sights of her weapons, books and papers strewn around the room. Yet she still finds it difficult to clear her mind from the day's events. Not that the death of her target bothered her. He was a frightful debtor who had ruined countless lives for two years, he had it coming. No, she was annoyed by how distracted she had been today, the thing responsible for her less than graceful leap of faith.

She slides her feet out of her boots and places them next to her desk. Without even a hesitation her eyes flit to the letter lying innocently on top as she sits down. It hasn't moved for three days and yet Aveline has in her memory every word, even being able to picture the handwriting: small and elegant but slanted, riding off the page as if distraction itself infected it.

Her hand skims over the paper briefly before snatching it up. Leaning back in her chair, feet propped against the drawers, she holds the letter aloft. Not reading it but looking at it; staring as if it were a living thing rather than a mere piece of paper. She has read thousands of letters in her time, both as woman of business and as an Assassin. There have been letters as dull pond water and letters that have shaken her world. Here in her hand is the first that has utterly confused her.

And the writer did it in one sentence.

'_Aveline, do you still call yourself an Assassin?'_

She shakes her head to herself, leaning forward to reach the bottom drawer of her desk. Without even looking she retrieves a decent sized box made of oak, a family crest carved onto the lid. Her fingers sweep over the grooves lightly to remove the dust before she prises it open. On the surface are about a dozen large pieces of paper: maps and letters, data about New York and the frontier. She digs her hand underneath and retrieves a pile of envelopes all graced with the same small handwriting, albeit a little neater.

Carefully she undoes the string that ties them together and shuffles them. Age has made them yellowed and delicate. There are nine in total, but three years have gone by since she last received a letter from the Assassin of the North- or rather it should be the _Mentor_ of the North, if she paid heed to the whispers of her recruits. She remembers replying to that last letter he sent but not being surprised when there was no return. Managing a growing revolution and war had to be pretty painstaking time-wise.

She hadn't forgotten about him over those three years though. It was pretty impossible not to. The exploits of Connor certainly reached as far as New Orleans. The recent rumours were outstanding. She cannot recall a single line in any of his correspondences concerning his command of one of the most fearful vessels upon the seas, and yet it was Gérald who had rushed in breathless with excitement, telling her about 'Captain' Connor's involvement with the naval battle of Chesapeake bay.

But yet that was him all over, full of disclosures. From the moment they met in person he was a surprise. She'd admit that she was nervous beforehand, being in such strange and unfamiliar territory (with the god awful, soul crushing _cold_) with not so much as an inkling of what he looked like, let alone his temperament. She was only armed with information that he had recently escaped both a harsh imprisonment and his own execution. She expected a brash Assassin, who wouldn't be all that involved with her request given he had such major tasks on his own doorstep.

She did not expect a quiet, humble yet oddly confident man. When he turned to look at her after she stuttered out an introduction (again, damn the cold), she saw a calm, even face peeking out from under his hood and felt for the first time in a long time a sense of appeasement. He said nothing about her being a woman, didn't comment on her appearance or ask why she was so far from home. He merely did what she wished, and as such they had worked splendidly together. The rush of trust for him, more powerfully felt than if she was with the people she had worked with for years, both soothed and unnerved her. This was what it was _meant_ to be like, working for a good cause. Not what she was facing back at home, a growing hotbed of suspicion.

Maybe it was the homesickness. Or perhaps the ominous feeling she had been carrying with her since she left New Orleans. Whatever it was, she felt compelled to share her worries with him, plucking up the courage right before she left. The question she asked was strange—any other Assassin could pull her up and question her loyalty to the cause. Staying true to the first impression she had of him however, he just answered plainly. He'd given her an answer she needed. She went back to New Orleans with a heart bothered by conspiracy but filled a little with hope. How quickly life all went to hell after that. In the space of a few months everything she knew was taken from her and she was stood holding an artefact she didn't understand, her thoughts reeling.

She wrote the first letter. It was summer in 1778 and she never felt so isolated. With Gérald's careful documentation, she had at that point just realised the scale of her new task in reinforcing the brotherhood. The Templar purge had withered them and the absence of Agaté was being to take its toll at last. At least by that point she had sold the Grandpré mansion. Or rather Gérald sold it for her. No point in returning to an empty home, more so a home where her father was murdered. The money was used to reinforce her quarters and also purchase a smaller house in the next street. Public word was that lady Aveline was so distraught by her father's death and her stepmother's 'sudden' and 'tragic' passing from grief that her nerves were shaken and she could no longer bear to live in such a large house by herself (and how _noble_ was it that her dear friend would be her landlord).

It was not all outright lies. Aveline did feel shaken. Or rattled rather, like a box full of shattered glass. She had achieved her goals, but the cost was hard and too high. She knew she had pledged her life to defend freedom. She knew there would be sacrifices. But this was too much, to sacrifice to the point where she sat in a room with a single candle, in a house she didn't recognise and would never call home. For days this maudlin fog caught her until a diversion happily wandered into her lap. As part of their efforts to reconstruct the brotherhood, Gérald had been sending her reports of revolutionary war in the hope of finding potential recruits. One report concerned a man named Benjamin Church, a Templar. Aveline was about to skip it until her eye caught the name _Connor_. Three hours later and the report lay in lap and she was awash with thoughts. Incredible to think that it was being speculated that Connor made a truce with the Templar Grand Master. How on earth did he achieve it? Why did he sought for it, to make a truce with what must have been his top target, with such a reputation of ridding Templars from the North?

There was something else underneath her curious thoughts. There was a strange kind of triumph. Reading through a record of Connor's actions was like an open window, letting the fresh air in at last. She was reminded of his hopeful nature and quiet persona. Reminded of the ideals he harboured. She had been wracked with guilt over her confused feelings about the Brotherhood as her grief for Agaté strengthened; Connor again had shown her a different path.

Also it reminded her that there was someone out there. Another world to interact with beyond New Orleans.

Despite her newfound eagerness she still sat there that night and dithered before composing a short two page letter. Logic helped with the process. The New Orleans Brotherhood was dwindling despite its rebirth, and to have Connor and his brotherhood as strong allies was smart. Strategic. Also it was just plain polite, to keep in touch with the Assassin who helped her in more ways than one. She mentioned nothing about the report or what it suggested. She stated that she had heard of Church's death and hinted that he could share details if he wished. She asked how his brotherhood was doing, and gave her regards to Achilles.

She expected nothing. She got a mammoth seven page letter five weeks later addressed from New York that detailed an incredible story of life and his goals. The striking part being that Haytham Kenway was his father. The sheer honesty was what took Aveline the most. Connor had no shame in his relations, and what he did with them. At the end of his letter was a polite question, how was her own quest to end the Templar influence in New Orleans doing, and did she find her 'Company Man'?

One epic story for another, it seemed. And it began a correspondence that ran throughout those short years before he lapsed into silence. The letters were not great in number, but they were always lengthy on both sides. She had no idea what they did for him (perhaps he was just being overwhelmingly polite) but it was an incredible stress release for her. It also let her take stock of her own life more than anything, her thoughts and ideas. Sometimes she was sure her letters made no sense, that they rambled on more for herself than for the figure she had met in person more only once. Still, she sent them to remind herself that the other world always existed.

By any means, Connor was seemingly always attentive to her ideas in his replies.

She was disheartened a little when her tenth letter was sent and there was no reply. Perhaps such a comradeship expressed through the pen wasn't meant to last, especially in these times. There was only ever one occasion over those silent three years did Aveline almost write to him again. The night she heard of the death of the Grand Master of the American Templars, Haytham Kenway. She was already at her desk with pen at the paper before she paused and checked herself, realising the situation. Kenway was his father, but he was also a Templar. Just as Aveline had ended the life of Madeline, there was a sure chance Connor had been made to kill his own father. What would she say about it, exactly? Should she give her condolences? Would he even _want_ them? Such thoughts made her realise that despite thinking she knew him, she didn't really at all. Nine letters were not enough to get the measure of the man. Heck, she barely knew herself concerning her own conflicts. Perhaps it was well enough he broke off the conversations.

But now in 1784 she sits at her desk with a letter from him and it confounds her. The part concerning Patience Gibbs has certainly taken her interest. But then she already knew she wanted to find the girl the moment the request was made. That wasn't the issue. The very first sentence is- what on earth did it refer to? Why would Connor consider that she may no longer be part of the Brotherhood, something she has known for most of her life? It has plagued her for three days, taken over her mind. However, with the small packet of letters in front of her, with the memories rushing back, Aveline sits upright in her chair as it recalls to her.

Of course, he was referring to the time when—

"You um... you keep reading that paper over and over and pretty soon the words will fall off."

Aveline manages a small smile as she looks up at Gérald standing in the doorway. The relief at her return from her contract is so visible on his face he almost looks like a painting. He clutches at a series of papers. More forms concerning the business that he wants Aveline to look at before he puts his signature on it.

"His request intrigues me. This Patience Gibbs has gained much for someone so young."

"You er, plan to go?"

A snap decision is the best for times like these. After a pause she gets to her feet and cracks her knuckles, mentally assessing her inventory. She avoids the look on Gérald's face in the act of gathering up the old letters, spare one, and placing them back in the drawer. Besides, she needs to stretch her legs. The North air will be good for her.

And there is no denying that she is just deadly interested to learn how a master assassin was bested by a mere 'startled' girl.

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A/N: Given that is with a tagging system, I'll warn here that Shay will pop up in this fic at some point.


	3. Connor: No Need to Knock

**Connor: No Need to Knock**

The candle gutters out, swamping the drawing room in Davenport Manor with complete darkness. It brings Connor out of his concentration, blinking rapidly. It's probably for the best that he's run out of light as he's been reading for hours and his vision was starting to blur. He makes a mental note to tell Jacob at some point that he really needs to be more concise in his reports. The description of activity on a corrupt merchant ship does not need to be eleven pages long and packed from top to bottom with his neat but tiny print. But even still, Connor couldn't really criticise such enthusiasm when it was so priceless to him.

He sits still for a moment to rub his eyes and let them adjust. He has no idea what time it is, but it's far too late. He chastises himself; he needs to stop doing this. Stop working until the small hours of the morning. Doctor White had said as much, that the disturbed sleep patterns and late nights made him more susceptible. That tiredness made the mind vulnerable.

But then again, while Connor values Doctor White greatly and the advice he bestows, there is no getting away from the fact that having a regular sleep pattern is not very compatible with his lifestyle. Especially now he's decided to devote his life to the brotherhood fully. Only two nights ago he had come from Boston where he had a difficult couple of days. Clipper, his chosen aide for a mission handed to them from their brothers further up north, had been injured on their second day of tracking their targets. Connor stayed awake for three nights straight after that, flitting between checking on his Assassin's condition and chasing the people responsible. It was fine, however. Pure adrenaline had kept him going. Until he got home, where he went into the kitchen and sat down to eat and couldn't remember anything other than Prudence waking him up the following morning to bring him eggs. She was less than pleased.

He should really try to sleep normally while he's been given the chance at least. He is sure to have visitors from the Homesteaders tomorrow. There had been a pressure building in the air for days, and it had finally broken that night with the first summer storm of year. It hasn't let up since, and as the rain pounds at the windows and roof Connor can only wonder at what repairs will have to be made to the houses of the other residents.

He likes the rain personally though. Likes its consistency. The continuous hum it provides for his mind and actually lets him _work_. Fills his senses so the memories can't flood in whenever they feel like it. Now that he's sitting in the darkness trying to find some energy to get up and go to bed, he focuses on it all the more. The sound of the rain also reminds him of the rolling sea and remembers how being on the _Aquila_ also offered him that same form of sereneness that centred him. Whether he got to fully enjoy that while on that ship though was another matter.

There is one worry that still scratches at his mind even as he sits there in the dark listening to the rain. Patience Gibbs. And of course Aveline as well. Almost unconsciously his finger starts tapping at a nearby piece of paper. It's been pushed around the desk and buried under other several sheets since he received it, but somehow it's moved back to the front. Even in the darkness he can see the message on it. Or maybe he's just memorised it:

_I will take care of it._

_Will send word ahead when on route to you_

_-A_

He felt a little bold in writing to her. More so when he recollected to his embarrassment that he had been the one to let slip the correspondence they had going a while back. It had not been deliberate, only that those last few years spent chasing Lee had been so chaotic, there had been no time to sit down and calmly compose something worth reading. He even tried it about a year after her last letter and gave up after several scrunched up sheets of paper. Maybe that was how it went when two Assassins lead such busy lives, especially ones who ran their brotherhoods.

Nevertheless when he sat in a tree just outside of Goat Island two months ago, using his left hand to rub at bruise forming on his cheek, it was Aveline he thought of first for help. She fitted for what he needed. Aside from their brief collaboration all those years back, he knew from her letters how resourceful and powerful she was. She had rebuilt her Brotherhood even after her stepmother's attempts to sabotage it and her mentor's unfortunate passing. She had started from rock bottom and became so notorious in Newport even a few of his own new recruits in Boston asked him if she was more than just a myth.

It all depended on whether she would accept or not. He was hardly sure if she even allied herself with the Assassins anymore, given that the infamous reports of her always had her working alone. The echoes of her words from years ago had also been in his mind, where she had wondered if it was worth staying in the Brotherhood, worth sticking to their beliefs. He had no idea if anything had changed in those years they didn't communicate but he didn't want to risk it. He was still unsure about it all even when he sent the letter off.

That fretting was for nothing. She accepted and replied. But that was sent over a month ago and here and now in the early summer he's starting to feel the twinges of concern in the darkness. It was a precarious task, and while he knew Aveline could handle it, he knew that so much could go wrong. Even more so these days.

And then those dangers were nothing if there was the added consideration of Patience herself—

He tenses. Instantly alert. There was a muffled bang from upstairs. He knows the silence of the manor so well it's instantly recognisable when it's been interrupted. Eyes to the ceiling, his fingers curl around his tomahawk which is never more than a foot away from him. Rising noiselessly, he makes for the stairs, ears pricked for further sounds. It's coming from the room where the books are kept and as silent as death Connor makes his way there. He marvels at just who would try to break in at this hour, and with _this_ weather.

With his left hand, he places his fingertips on the door and waits. He can hear the rain more clearly through the wood, indicating that they entered by the window. When he hears the creak of a footstep within, he slams the door open with the flat of the palm and rushes in.

If whoever it was inside the room was startled by his entry, they don't show it. He runs forward but suddenly arms are grabbing his legs and he topples wordlessly—only then to be pinned to the floor. It takes half a second to even register this. They're a lot smaller than him, slight, but _fast_. The wet handle of a machete is about to come crashing on his head and he only just manages to deflect it with his tomahawk. Their intention is not to kill him, but Connor is not prepared to put himself in any position for interrogation. As the assailant tries again to aim for his skull Connor is about to grab their elbow, planning to twist it so that he can free himself and question them—but then through the slim light of the moon making its way through rain splattered windows he sees the profile of his attacker.

He drops his tomahawk in shock as it clicks. The noise of it hitting the floor throws his invader off guard and pause for that one second he needs. His eyes flick to the machete they're holding, the one he recognises.

"Aveline?"

He gets a deep French accent in return.

"Oh _merde_!"

She immediately rolls off him and away, sitting on her knees and breathing hard. Meanwhile he manages to sit up, the pain of the fall now affecting him slightly. However, he's more concerned and a little horrified that he may have just injured a friend he hasn't spoken to in years. He squints at her in the dark.

"I am sorry—"

Aveline cuts him off with raised hands, which he can just about see. She's speaking so fast it's a wonder he can process it.

"God no Connor, _I'm_ sorry. I didn't think. I wasn't sure this was the right place and there were no lights from what we could see, and Patience—"

"You brought her here?"

"Yes, soaked to the bone and grumpy as—let me help you up." She springs to her feet and thrusts an arm at him. He's a little too startled to refuse and takes it, biting his lip as his scar pangs in protest. She's drenched from the rain, and Connor notices that her arm is cold through the layer of her shirt.

"Where is she?"

"Outside—one moment, did I hurt you?"

He shakes his head briefly, barely paying attention. He motions for Aveline to go through into the corridor, thinking it best to get the girl in as soon as possible.

"Again I'm so sorry."

She pauses at the top of the stairs and he realises that she wants him to go in front. He leads the way while he hears how gingerly Aveline descends on the steps. All of a sudden, it's become very awkward. Brothers in arms they may be, but he realises that this is the first time he's seen her in about seven years. And he can't even see her properly.

"I can understand why it looked suspicious if you have never been here."

"You're _really_ well hidden." She sounds more impressed than annoyed, but it's hard to tell in the dark. "We've been circling the area for three days. I sent a letter onwards to tell you we'd be coming but the messenger got just as lost as we did."

Connor sighs to himself. He is going to have to work on that somehow. Aveline is not the first Assassin to have gone astray on the way to the Homestead and he's had to deal with worse unexpected arrivals than this. Briefly he wonders if he should get the maps of the area redrawn. When they reach the ground floor Aveline walks past him in order to get to the door before him.

"I'd better let her inside. She was nervous and jumpy before I broke in. Must have rubbed off on me."

He heeds to her wisdom as old memories come to mind and heads into the reading room. He lights new candles and is moving chairs closer to the fireplace when he hears her voice. Reality snaps a little more visibly. Patience is actually here. Something that at one point he thought would never happen.

"Where is he? Is he here then? Because it didn't—hello."

He turns around to see her in the doorway, as doused with the rain as Aveline. This is not how he pictured meeting her once more, with her so bedraggled and clearly worn out. But it could have been worse, considering that he almost knocked out the person who brought her here. Besides the first meeting didn't go as smoothly as he expected, why should this one?

"Patience, I am glad to see you again."

"Connor." She lifts her head at him, challenging.

"How's your fingers?"

His lips twitch just a little, but there's no hiding the slight humour in his voice.

"They have... healed nicely." His brow creases slightly and she tenses.

"What?"

"I thought you would finish that sentence for me."

"Ah, I have the charm here." Aveline speaks up from behind Patience, walking into the room and holding a small bag. She gives Connor a meaningful look as she places it on the table.

"We've found that conversations are a little easier without it."

Connor then catches the glare that Patience gives Aveline out of the corner of his eye. That was clearly not a mutual decision. Unexpectedly, there is a chill in the air but it's not just from the rain outside and he feels like he should fix this new situation as best he can. It comes to him that there must be something going on between them that he knows nothing about.

"Come in, you must be freezing."

He's still a little stunned at the turn of events but he manages to get his head clear enough to fetch blankets and tea. Twenty minutes later and there's a good fire going. He leans against the desk nearby and watches and listens to them as they tell him about their journey, more for the sake of taking time to warm up rather than anything. It also does much to change what was a very high strung atmosphere, which he's grateful for. Patience has not changed a bit, but its remarkable how much of Aveline he doesn't remember, and what he's noticing now that he can actually see her. The conversation begins to falter ten minutes later when it gets constantly getting interrupted with Patience's yawning. Aveline looks at Connor after the seventh yawn.

While he may not have seen her for seven years he's learnt what those types of cues mean. Aveline sets her cup on the table.

"I think we'll all be a little bit more clear-headed in the morning."

"I will show you where you will be, Patience." He begins "Aveline, you can stay in the—"

"I want her to stay."

It is so unexpected for Patience to suddenly pipe up and cut Connor off that both he and Aveline turn to look at her. Aveline raises an eyebrow.

"Well, of course. I'm not eager to go out into the rain again today whatsoever—"

Patience shakes her head rapidly before staring straight at Connor, who is seemingly found himself stuck to the table he was leaning on. His hands grip the edges.

"No. Connor, I want her to stay here, to help train me."

Connor raises his eyebrows. The request is simple but somehow it has big consequences. The atmosphere of before returns, but he has the distinct impression he is still above it somehow. He keeps his eyes fixed on Patience and she's looking at him strangely, if he didn't know better he'd say she was almost _pleading_ with him.

"Patience—" Aveline begins, but Patience has none of it. She gets up from her chair and takes a step towards him.

"I don't care. Connor, she can stay can't she?"

He turns looks at Aveline, inquisitive. Asking for an explanation on just what on earth is going on. Wanting to know where this appeal has come from and why it's causing such clear antagonism. But she offers nothing, only what was irritation has turned into nervousness. Patience taps her foot keenly, eyes still trained on Connor. He won't deny it's beginning to unnerve him.

"Well?"

Connor doesn't reply because he's not entirely sure what he's just stumbled upon. It's Aveline who breaks the silence.

"We'll talk about it in the morning, Patience."

Even though he still hasn't the faintest idea what is going on, he gets the feeling that any reply he or Aveline gave her wouldn't be the right one. He's correct. Patience shows her displeasure with Aveline's words by stalking out of the room and heading for the stairs.

He stands upright and looks at Aveline, gesturing towards the door. "What...?"

Aveline's hands twist the blanket she's holding. If he's not thrown off by Patience's behaviour, he is by Aveline's. He doesn't remember her being this apprehensive even in his dim recollections. What was so nerve racking about Patience asking her to stay?

"I'll explain." She whispers, "Just not with her here."

He only pauses for a moment but the worried look on her face doesn't change. He just nods a reply, going after his new student. When he first met Patience he had trouble believing she was sixteen, surprised as he was with her swagger and maturity, so he's glad she's showing her age now. He follows her up the stairs, caught peculiarly between trying not to laugh or shake his head and wondering for a fleeting moment if the wood is strong enough to take the stomping feet.

His night is turning out to be a little livelier than he thought. He sees her charging down the corridor in complete darkness and can hear her cursing as she walks into clearly the wrong room.

"On the left."

He follows her inside to the old gallery-turned-bedroom. Silently he lights the lamp while she watches him. He can't see her face, but he wonders if she's looking at him with contempt. He's not even sure what he's done this time. But now he knows for certain that there is something else going on here that he doesn't know about. Something about Aveline. As he makes his way out, Patience calls to him, leaning against the doorframe.

"I want her to stay."

His hand is on the banister when he turns to look at her. He chooses his next words with care; it's been a while since he's had to be this diplomatic. Actually he thinks the last time he did it was when he was lecturing George Washington. And that was a long time ago.

In this situation, he thinks the best route now would be to just go along with it.

Whatever 'it' was.

"I am going to consider it right now" When she doesn't move, he raises his hands in a peaceful gesture. "I promise."

She huffs at him before slamming the door shut. Connor notes that she now takes his negotiations better than George Washington, at any rate.

He hears her moving things around as he makes his way back downstairs. The silence of the house is going to face several interruptions from now on and he wonders if he is prepared for it. He enters the reading room again and takes the chair Patience vacated. He notices that at least the troubled gaze Aveline had on her face is gone, and she looks more like the person Connor remembers. He barely sits down before she starts.

"She's tired. The last length of the journey was hard and neither of us has dealt with that terrain before."

"It is fine."

She sucks in a deep breath, "As you see she can be a bit..."

Connor shakes his head again. If Aveline was just anxious that he didn't know what Patience was like, there was no need for it. The first impression told him everything.

"I know what I am getting in to, if that is what you mean. I must thank you for bringing her here for it could not have been easy."

He knows he said the right thing there at least when at last she relaxes, head resting against the chair. She all of a sudden looks tired. After the initial rush of discovering the bombshell that was Aveline and Patience and somehow working his way through what had clearly been a battlefield between them, he realises that he's pretty tired also. Now that he's a little closer to the fire, the warmth is intoxicating him.

"So it is true?"

He blinks at her, "What is?"

"That she broke your fingers. I thought she was making it up."

"It is true. I assure you it was unexpected." Punch to the face also. Now that he doesn't have to deal with having a front anymore, he allows himself a small smile. While at the time he was alarmed at how quickly he had been halted by a sixteen year old, he now finds it pretty funny. He's not exactly going to tell a lot of people about it though. It looked like Patience was already doing that for him.

Aveline only smiles for a moment before it goes. The nervousness seems to be on the border again.

"I... I'm sorry about Patience. About her behaviour"

He gets the feeling she's waiting for him to speak. And as with Patience upstairs, he feels like here he has to choose his words with consideration. With Patience though, that was to be accepted as the norm. But with someone he once worked with and had sent letters to, and knew to be a confident and open woman... it's positively strange. Perhaps too much time had passed between that last letter and the now, and he has to deal with a different person. He speaks slowly when he replies, weighing down every word.

"I must consider what she wants, given how much it has taken to get her here."

Aveline nods avidly, balling her fingers into fists. Preparing herself, he notices.

"But I cannot ask you to give away so much of your time."

She was obviously not expecting that last sentence, because those hands unclench and her face blanches for a moment. For about the fifth time tonight Connor is wondering if he's said the wrong thing.

"You'd be fine with it though? If I agreed?"

He feels confused, thinking that he'd be having more difficult questions than this.

"Yes."

She tilts her head, "You don't think I would be stepping on your toes—taking away your role?"

He shrugs. "If there are more on hand to guide her, then I would be grateful. I believe she can go on to do great things for those she wants to help."

He is absolutely telling the truth. Patience is not his first student. Despite it all, she's not the most difficult either, not by a long shot. He's had tricky recruits before her, those a lot bigger and stronger than her that he's had to deal with. He knows for sure that Patience is different. It is more than just the charm she posses. In all honesty he doesn't care about it. He is much more intrigued by her determination and logic. No ordinary sixteen year old would lead an escape on the scale she did. If more could help her become refined, acquiring better skills in a shorter time frame, it meant more people would feel the effects of her influence. Would feel the type motivation she had given him.

He wonders why then Aveline thought he would refuse such help— and refuse _her_ especially. There hasn't been a rumour about her that wasn't true since she began to cause serious trouble for slave trade. That wasn't including what she had described to him in her letters. How she ruthlessly took down anyone who got in the way of her pursuit for justice.

He realises he's gone quiet and Aveline is still looking at him like she can't quite believe what he's saying.

"If I considered having a second mentor for her, I would choose you. I heard your name so many times around Newport I wondered if you were actually there at first."

Watching her carefully, he wonders if the room is becoming too hot as he notices her cheeks going red. Despite the rain outside, it is meant to be summertime.

"But as I said," he continues hurriedly "it would take months before she is ready."

"Yes, definitely." Aveline perks up, "She's as talented as you say but she lacks finesse. Especially without that charm."

He hums an agreement, thinking back to how he first observed Patience. She was overly reliant on that charm, even though it had its benefits. Considering how she didn't like the fact that Aveline took it off her at some point on their journey, he wonders how she's going to take the instruction that she trains without it.

It's as if Aveline is reading his mind.

"A few problems with discipline also." She adds with a smirk on her face. Connor was not the only one who had to endure some retaliation. Still, it was Aveline who managed to get her here.

"I am pleased you managed to work well together despite that."

"Well, we've had our issues. I'm shocked she still wants me here, she only mentioned it once or twice while we were making our way to you."

"She said to you that she wants you to stay?"

Aveline only gives him a tiny nod.

"She agreed though that you were to be her mentor and she was looking forward to it..." The sly smile comes back on her face. "She enjoyed telling me about how she got away from you."

"She would."

Aveline chuckles a bit and Connor can feel his own disquiet about her etching away. She hadn't changed that much at all. Whatever had made her nervous, whether it was with the level of his experience or the query as to whether he would have another mentor, or even something else, it had been banished. The humorous recipient of his letters was still present.

They both lapse into a weary silence. Connor starts to think properly about the situation he's now been given. That Aveline could possibly stay for a few months to help with the training. He can't see anything wrong with it and from the looks of it neither does Patience. He glances at Aveline again as she stares at the fire. Whether she would be happy with the new arrangement is something he needs to find out. After all, she would be the one most affected.

"I just want her to be comfortable."

Aveline starts out of her trance and looks at him again, picking up her cup.

"I understand. Despite our differences she opened up to me a little. She's been through a lot. Do you know?"

He grimaces, "In parts, and only what I heard from others. I will not press her on any of it, however."

"No, no of course. Well, maybe..."

She looks down at her cup and Connor waits. He thinks he knows what the problem is. He never thought that in asking Aveline to help she would get so invested. Patience did have that effect on people, as he's noticed. But if he thinks back about the whole night, the way Aveline has acted has been... protective, almost. At least he doesn't have to wonder if she's still affiliated with the Assassins. He feels rather foolish for putting that comment in his letter.

When Aveline speaks, Connor has difficulty hearing her over the crackling fire.

"I just think she has been reliant on only herself for so long, that while you've given her this opportunity, she's still scared about it." She looks up, "Scared about what it means for her."

"Did you ever tell her that?"

"Hell no, and I'm not saying she's a delicate flower."

"Quite."

"But if I could make the process easier for her, she could be trained that little bit more quickly, as you said."

He leans forward and he notes how Aveline tilts her head again. This entire scenario, this entire evening, has been weird—and it still is. On the other hand, having Aveline sitting opposite him now at ease and discussing such matters with him feels like the most normal thing in the world. It's as if they are writing to each other again and he wonders at how simple it has been to pick up such comfortableness after a long period of silence.

"So... would you?" he asks.

It takes half a second.

"Yes. I mean... I will have to sort out some issues but I think I could... and maybe this kind of work..."

She rubs her temples, which causes Connor to look at the clock. He gets to his feet when he sees that it's four in the morning. He has no idea how long Aveline has been awake for, the shadows under her eyes seem to indicate that it's been too long.

"My apologies for keeping you up, you must be exhausted. We can talk about this properly in the morning."

"Yes, and I'm babbling. I should listen to my own advice." She gets to her feet also and stretches, making Connor wince as he hears her bones crack.

"Where can I stay?"

"There is a room on the left of the downstairs corridor, the door should be open." He tries to be as nonchalant as possible as he says this. More for himself than for outward pretence. It has been three years already. He doesn't look in its direction as he heads for the stairs but he sees Aveline's outline on the edge of his vision as she stumbles to it. She turns around.

"I forgot to say."

He pauses halfway up, peeking over the banister to see her looking up at him.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Connor." She stops for a moment. "Even though I didn't really make that clear when I first entered your house."

He lets out a small laugh. He's still having a little bit of difficulty believing she's here. That Patience is upstairs. That he went from sitting alone in the darkness to wondering if the certain steps will need to be replaced. That he spoke to Aveline like he would write a letter to her. That this house is now . He'll need the morning before he even begins to comprehend what's happened.

He doesn't say any of this out loud as he looks down at Aveline.

"Likewise."


	4. Aveline: Barbed

A/N: In the DLC Patience for some reason has hidden blades. Just act like you never saw them ;)

**Aveline: Barbed**

Aveline doesn't brag. That's how mistakes are made. Life had taught her that when you thought you had it going for you, that you had the control, something would like to come around and teach you otherwise. The trick was to stay modest and alert, and to respect that danger that lurked around all corners. This was how she has survived for so long by clinging to that ideology, and it hadn't let her down.

But unpretentiousness didn't mean that she lacked stock of what her abilities were though. That too was essential for survival. To know the limits. Six years spent as a master Assassin and sporadic mentor of the New Orleans brotherhood made her believe that she had quite the high limit for tolerance. Since the death of Madeline she had yet to bat an eyelid at situations that tested her mental and physical abilities, to get nettled over things a much younger Aveline would have ran away from. She'd hit the lowest level and very little could threaten her anymore.

Therefore right now the angry buzz that is running through her body, this, infuriating tension that she wants to be rid off, is biting at her pride. It becomes even more irritating as she considers that there is no life or death situation responsible for this. She's standing still in the middle of a training ring surrounded by weapons, tools and resplendent scenery as the sun beams down on her loose braids (it's been marvellous to work without the hat in this hot weather). The divergence between her inner turmoil and the world around her makes this all the worse.

She wills her heartbeat to slow, her head to clear. Hunching her shoulders to allow a small sigh in order to centre herself. Fixing her face into what she hopes is a calm and serene look of confidence towards the scowling figure leaning against the training doll in front of her.

"Just try it."

Patience's glare only deepens, hands tightening on the rope dart in her hands. Her tone is stark, instantly challenging.

"What's the point of these?"

"If you use your imagination, you'll find several uses for them."

If Aveline's face is struggling to keep a front, then her voice definitely is. It's thin and sarcastic. So it turns out that while she's had several tests of her tolerance over years right now she's learning that she's never been tested in this specific style.

And Patience knows it.

"Why do I have to start with stuff like this? Where am I ever going to need to use these?"

"I told you—"

"Why can't I start with the blades?"

It's only been a month in and already Aveline has lost count concerning just how many times she's been interrogated on the subject of the hidden blade. And that's with her only doing half the teaching. At least she knows in herself that no matter how hard Patience tries with her pleas, she will not wear down. Not at all. At the moment she privately thinks it would be safer giving a hidden blade to that young boy she sees running around and chasing the chickens (Hunter? Was that the name or was she just imagining things?) than to the girl standing in front of her. The accident rate had been high with the scant weapons so far.

This was normal. This was something every Assassin underwent. You had to wait, to warrant the privilege. For some reason Patience has decided to take this very personally.

"You have to earn those and you know that. Besides, they're not to be relied on all the time."

"You used them all the time when you came and got me."

She nonchalantly shrugs in reply, folding her arms in silence even though she already has a scathing comeback in her mind. She can't remember the last time she found it difficult to play the mature adult. This isn't a spoiled rich white man with bad taste in clothes and a thick accent she's dealing with here.

"The more you argue with me, the longer it'll take for you to get them. It's up to you."

There's a ten second standoff between teacher and pupil before Patience concedes with a frustrated growl. She places herself in position in front of the doll as Aveline had instructed her before the complaining began, the rope dart in her left hand. Unseen to her, Aveline allows another sigh, one of relief. This bizarre and tiring system that had some how been set up during the first month with Patience for now was the only way any from of learning could be achieved: A process of give and take, standoffs, and always a constant refusal to back down.

But any ideas to try and change this didn't work. A few days rest after their shambolic arrival at the Homestead transformed Patience from the subdued teenager that Aveline was starting to understand and back to her full vitality. And with the added cost of her previous attitude.

She had her suspicions concerning Patience's transformation. Predicted them, even. She had told Connor the night they arrived her thoughts about well concealed but decimating elements of fear and anxiety she was sure their new dependent harboured. What that could result in. The way he took it in his stride reassured her that he expected it also.

But these problems were not as easy to solve as that of an incorrect fighting stance. Aveline certainly didn't know how to handle it. She felt like a pretender every time she tried. To see some as talented and smart as Patience loath to cultivate her skills was wearing her sympathy thin. But to push her anymore, to make her push past the apprehension, had its dangers. Both mentors knew her favourite trick of running from anything that made her panic. To increase the uneasiness here would result in a hasty departure from the Homestead in the middle of the night, something they did not need. It was far more than just about having a desire to train her. The death of Doctor Judge had spread across the towns and cities, rippling the north. Even though primarily it was Aveline Judge's men were after, what with her notorious and recognisable reputation, Patience was not about to escape persecution either. If they happened to come across her then she'd make a fine replacement for punishment. As Connor said (and the way he said it made Aveline turn cold), if she got caught, it would be doubted that even her mentors could get to her.

Annoyingly, it appeared that they would have to wait for another teacher. The worst one of all: Time.

Meanwhile as she waits for that, she's always aware that she is walking a thin line.

"Start the swing. Ease into it."

Her pupil does as directed, getting the angle and curve right on her first try. Aveline stops herself from quick praise, eager to let this develop. Which is just as well, given what happens next.

In theory, the swing was neither big nor strong enough to make the dart break off. But as Aveline was beginning to comprehend, not only was Patience talented, she was exceptional at defying assumptions. Aveline is about to give another instruction when she hears the sudden tell-tale _ping! _and the dart snaps off the rope. It's too fast in order to determine direction and Aveline automatically ducks as Patience yelps. A second later and Aveline lifts her head to see Patience round on her, spooked.

"Where the hell did it go?"

The answer is in the form of a quiet snarl through gritted teeth that she hears behind her. She turns to see Connor, who was standing off a few feet, observing them and all the while enacting the perfect imitation of a statue. Well, he was. Right now he is lowering his arm from in front of his face and Aveline can see, glinting menacingly in the sunlight, the dart deeply embedded in it. She winces at the thought of the situation she might have had on her hands had Connor's reactions been as fine.

Her grimace flattens out though as she clocks Connor's expression. He just looks utterly confused rather than alarmed at the sight of a huge dart in his forearm. There's no opportunity to laugh as Patience pushes past her in a panic, swearing. She halts as Connor raises his other non-impaled arm in an attempt to soothe her sudden fright.

"It was just an accident, Patience."

His calm tone doesn't do much. She shakes her head in response and turns to Aveline, glowering, as if Aveline had thrown the dart at Connor herself.

"You see! This is why I need my charm back!"

She catches Connor looking at her furtively and they both raise their eyes at the same time. Where Patience doesn't take the opportunity to harass about the hidden blade, bitter complaining about the absence of her charm takes place instead. At the first instance of a mistake, Patience would demand it back off Aveline. Having been the first person to take it off her, she got cast as the bad guy in this situation, even though it was Connor who agreed with her and had it currently hidden.

Aveline resolutely wouldn't bow down to this demand, even more so than giving her the blade. Because after three days of hard travelling to the Homestead, having someone constantly finishing her sentences was no doubt, the most annoying thing Aveline has ever had to deal with. Ever. More so than the random alligators coming to say hello during her forays in the Bayou and that was _saying something._

Before she can offer her usual rounds of defence regarding that damn charm, Connor interjects.

"The charm would not teach you how to use those." He offers, deliberately not looking at Aveline. He had become very uncomfortable with the new position she had been given as Patience's verbal punching bag. She didn't mind. Connor was taking the brunt of the physical injuries so she considered the field pretty even.

"We want you to concentrate on your own instincts, not rely on something to do that for you."

"Why not? I've had it for years and it has never let me down!"

"Until the moment you didn't have it anymore." Aveline snaps. She can remain calm on most of what Patience says, but where Patience casually forgets the incident with Judge it hits a raw nerve. She would have been killed. And easily, had it not been for her intervention, of which she was initally doing at Connor's request.

Aveline's clearly hit a raw nerve with Patience here also, as her face sets.

"I would have got it back."

"Right, and I take it you would have killed Judge by yourself also."

She regrets the sardonic comeback as soon as she says it, but it's too late to make amends. Instantly the young woman spins on her heel and stalks off in the direction of the woods without another word, the silence awkward for all as both mentors watch her. Connor takes a halting step forward but Aveline is already ahead of him, adhering to the routine.

"Let her walk it off—or whatever she does when she storms off like that. She's no good for training angry"

She's no good to train her either. She is assuring Connor without any base. She did exactly what she wanted to avoid and pushed Patience too far. Notably, this was the first instance in a week, but then the break in good habit stung that bit more because of it.

"She punches the trees, I have heard her."

She looks at him, not expecting that quiet reply. Not expecting any reply really. She thought Connor would think her unprofessional, unfit to teach. Connor seemed to handle Patience's manner a lot better than she did, usually able to refrain from answering back. Or at least appeared to be handling it. Her shortcomings, the lack of confidence she also sheltered, felt to her like it was clear for both her pupil and fellow mentor to see.

"Well, that's a form of training in itself, right?"

He doesn't reply, still looking at the spot in the woods where Patience disappeared, a concerned look on his face. She often felt it too, but took measure in the fact that Patience always went off armed- a small sword strapped to her waist at all times.

Blood from Connor's arm is beginning to drip onto the grass.

"Um, we'd better take that out."

He snaps out of it and looks down at his injured arm like he'd forgotten it even happened. Aveline is stuck between a reaction of confusion and alarm at this high level of pain tolerance, darts hurt a lot in her experience.

He silently goes to sit on a nearby crate and Aveline takes it as a sign of confirmation, going to look for sash and bandages. Something they both learned to keep nearby during training.

"There were trees and bushes everywhere but that dart had to hit your arm, didn't it?"

He shakes his head.

"I thought doing this outside would lessen the risk of injury."

"I wish I knew how to lessen the risk of bad tempers." She mutters to herself, plucking a red sash from one of the red boxes. She is still full of mental poison as she can't help but go over and analyse that spat with Patience again and again, berating herself all the more.

"She can learn to control her anger."

Another startling comment she wasn't expecting on getting. She constantly forgets that just because he's quiet, it doesn't mean he's not paying attention or listening. She covers up her embarrassment by pulling a crate next to his to sit on, placing the bandages nearby and wrapping the sash around her hand. Connor has gone back to look at the woods, his arm carelessly held aloft.

"I was talking about me." Might as well be honest, "Still think I would be your first choice as teacher?"

He turns to look at her with the same extreme confusion he had when he was wondering how a dart got into his forearm.

"Of course." He looks as if he wants to say more, but clearly thinks better of it. Again Aveline encounters a mild form of chagrin that she wants to be rid of and sets to figuring out how she's going to retrieve the dart in the least hurtful way possible. Her bare hand moves to his wrist, but she hovers over it at the last moment. That flinch is unmistakable to those who have recently learnt to look for it.

"I don't have to."

He looks grateful as he shakes his head again.

"I am fine with it."

Slowly she uses her cloth bound hand to grip at the dart, while her other hand takes his wrist in order to steady the movement. It takes a few painful seconds, but at last the dart wrenches out. Connor doesn't make a single sound. Impressive.

He gets up and grabs the clean bandage, pushing back the ripped sleeve of his shirt. He then wraps and ties wound in the matter of seconds, quickly pulling the shirtsleeve back down and covering it. Aveline avoids staring, unwinding the cloth from her hand but secretly fascinated with the speed in which he does it.

"Is that all the skin I'm going to see today? You disappoint me Connor."

He been around her long enough and developed senses of control in order to raise an eyebrow at her, but there is no hiding the slight blush on his cheeks. That small reaction of his for some reason makes her less tense. The disquiet she had been feeling since Patience's take-off is finally beginning to wear out.

"I'm only teasing."

With dart in hand she goes for the rope Patience threw down before stalking off.

"Teasing?"

"Yes, teasing. Making fun."

God knows they need it right now, what with the daily battles they currently went through. He muses on the term while she sits back down in order to tie the dart back on the rope. It's harder than she thought and a few choice words in French escape her.

"I've forgotten how big these are."

"You do no normally use them?" Connor asks as he sits on the crate cross-legged with his back uncomfortably straight, absent-mindedly rubbing at his injured arm.

"Too unpredictable for me. My mentor attempted to show me their uses until I grazed him in the back one time too many."

Or more or less. Agaté had run out of persistence, keener to teach her more forceful methods of dealing with the enemy. She revels in the fondness as she recollects those sessions. She had been a lot younger then, in her teens. When it was a better time.

"I took a chip out of the wall, but it could have easily been Achilles' head instead."

Finally she gets the dart attached and pulls on it to check that it's strong, deciding to give it a trial. It would be good to familiarize herself with it once more. She advances on the doll and goes through the exercises she would have made Patience do, letting the fluency of the skill return in its own time.

Neither of them speaks for a few long minutes while Aveline attacks the doll again and again, the repeated hits forming a sort of rhythm.

What Aveline had noticed most about Connor, and is definitely the most appreciative of during her stay here, is that he is an excellent practitioner of silences. Granted, his nature would obviously make them susceptible, but he could make them comfortable. No need for chatter. It had been a while since Aveline was with someone who didn't have the compulsion to obey the ridiculous social norm of constant talking. That, or she was usually on her own anyway.

She's currently aware however that his mood has settled into a form of dourness. Her movements gain fluidity her mind wanders. No matter how hard they try neither can keep Patience off their minds for very long. She is about to pipe up and ask him what he planned to teach Patience next when she hears him.

"I wish I knew why she takes it so badly when she makes a mistake."

She's still swinging the rope when she thinks of a reply.

"I think we forget that Patience isn't your standard novice."

She aims, striking the doll in the shoulder. With another deft pull the dart is out and swinging smoothly once more, although she's not paying any real attention to what she's doing as she ponders.

"She organised a slave escape and has been relying on herself for ten years, the only expectations she needed to meet were her own."

Connor is listening attentively, his hands clasped together. She turns fully to face him, dart still swinging. She doesn't blame him for recoiling slightly.

"And there has been no one around to tell her what to do. She's been the lead. It showed when she was ordering you to let me stay the night we arrived."

She turns back around, unsure as to why she brought that night up. Connor never mentioned it, although she's sure that he must have found the entire escapade that was their introduction at least a little unusual. He must have done. He was probably expecting an easy handover with a quick wish of good luck and instead he got an added guest who initially tried to smash him in the face.

(And she's still absolutely mortified about that.)

"Are you still comfortable staying here?" He asks, skirting around the issue. Or she believes he's skirting around it. To her frustration she can't tell what he thinks about the whole drama. She starts her practises on the doll again, more to give her something to do so it meant she didn't have to look at him.

"Yes, though it's a lot harder than I thought."

"I mean are you comfortable here." He hesitates, "Staying in this house?"

"Oh, yes. Definitely." She meant that. Her room was huge, despite being a little dusty when she first moved in. She wondered why Connor didn't use the space though, because there was a lot of it. The drawing room (that was clearly a dining room before) was crammed with all sorts of books, maps and other literatures that he didn't use and could easily shove into her room. She wouldn't mind. Although of course, she wasn't about to direct him on how he should keep his house.

"It must be very different for you."

_And for you,_ she thinks to herself. While Connor was in every way the perfect host it was blatantly evident that it had been a while since there had been other people in the house. It's been a month but he still occasionally jumps when he walks into the reading room or kitchen and sees her there. Aveline laughs it off, and it's turned into a small running joke that has at least broken the foreignness that had formed between them over years of silence. But then she was never going to find that behaviour strange. She sympathises. She may be able to hide it better but living in close quarters with two people who have only just upgraded from total strangers is outlandish for her.

But if he was referring to her being in the north, and that she was finding it weird being away from New Orleans, then he needed to be updated.

"Not really. The north itself is not so alien to me. Most of my work finds me there these days."

More like all of her work. And she's been there for three years near solidly.

"Working to break the trade?"

He means that in the nicest and most admirable way possible, but internally she takes it sourly. He's given her far too much credit. She wishes she could so much as put a crack in that abomination that had the impudence to call itself a _trade_, let alone break it down. It sought to get stronger all the time, and to her despair she was realising that she couldn't keep up. The harder she fought, the more it fought back; it was like being put over a rack and being stretched perilously thin.

Not really appropriate to bring up in this simple conversation. They rarely got to talk as they did now, she didn't want to scare him off.

"Yes. It is relentless work, and it seems like it will never end. But necessary to the last."

Her dart misses the shoulder she was aiming for, throwing her concentration. She tries again; her next throws are a little bit harder than before. She thinks Connor has gone quiet and gets lost in the movements when he interrupts it.

"So why decide to stay here for Patience?"

"She interests me."

She had that reply primed; she has nothing for what Connor offers next.

"You got attached."

_Thwack!_ The dart directly hits the head.

"No." She replies icily. And too quickly. The master of silences says nothing, just letting his suspicion hang in the air and it is too strong to ignore. No wonder the northern Templars cracked so quickly if they were subjected to this on a regular basis.

"So perhaps slightly."

The dart is so embedded into the wooden head that she has to go and wrench it out with her hands.

"It is normal, I have found."

He did have an opinion on what happened that night then. As usual he was just being polite about it, waiting for a better moment to ask rather than probe her when she was exhausted and sore. That manner of going about things is both endearing and irksome. Again, she was beginning to see how he got the revolution to bend his way.

"For you, maybe." Finally the dart comes loose. "But I wasn't trained in such a way and I don't often work with others."

"I noticed that recently. You came here alone also."

Aveline decides she's had enough messing around with the dart. If it pings off again then they'll just have to give up on it and declare that destiny had decided that Patience Gibbs should never be within a ten-mile radius of them. She drapes it over the doll's shoulders, ready for it's student, and goes back to sitting on the crate next to Connor. Sitting crossed-legged and his face a picture of nervousness, it strikes her for a moment how young he appears in that moment.

"You're curious as to why?"

"I did not realise you were so far up north, I thought you were rebuilding your brotherhood still—" He catches himself, "But I do not want to interrogate you."

Internally she laughs. He always sounds so serious when he thinks he's upset someone.

"Connor, I don't think verbal interrogation is your style. No, I did spend several years in New Orleans after what happened with the Templars, because there was so much to do."

"But now?"

"The enemy shifted tracks, causing more corruption. Simply picking out targets is not enough anymore and different methods were needed."

He looks quizzically at her.

"Information over action. I've found it doesn't suit me. I only go back when there's something serious that needs my attention."

In New Orleans there were just more and more braggarts to seduce and charm and more hours to waste at socials and functions as the glorified spinster whom everyone spilled their problems to. In short, Aveline's perfect realm of hell. An illusive debtor who had tortured an informant of theirs was the whole reason why Connor was extremely lucky she got a hold of his letter, having used the old address. There were also other reasons she stayed away but she couldn't even deal with them herself, let alone navigate them into conversation.

"That would not suit me either."

She smiles; she's found the first Assassin who hasn't found her new vocations odd. But that was the Connor of her letters, the man who took everything head on and someone she knew. Figuring out what had changed in him had been puzzling her mind recently, now she was settling in. She kept thinking that nothing had changed about him. His hair was shorter, and maybe he looked a little bit tired. But that was what the life of an Assassin did to you. She avoids looking at mirrors these days because of the haggard lines she is sure that rake across her face.

She couldn't wrap her mind around something in particular about him, and now she has this rare opportunity, she might as well inquire. It's not going to do any harm.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes." He sounds utterly uncertain, looking at his feet. She decides to press ahead anyway. Surely it would be inoffensive…

"How old are you?"

The way he drops his stiff frame indicates that her instincts were right.

"Twenty-eight."

She calculates, "That means you were… twenty two."

"Sorry?"

"When we first met, you were only twenty-two."

He looks a little bit affronted at the 'only' part but she doesn't really see it. She's a little stunned. She clocked that he was young when they first met but she didn't realise just how much. What on earth was she doing at twenty-two? Running around with the world blind to her. Madeline was still an ally and she believed she could rebuild the relationship with Agaté, alongside taking her father for granted.

Meanwhile Connor had achieved much in a short space of time time. What had she done with those years?

"Why is it important?"

"I had always assumed… your manner…"

"What of it?"

She thought he was older because of it. He seemed to have that _weight_ about him. Of difficult responsibility, of having dealt with a kind of pain that only those who usually live a couple of decades more get to experience. And how he carried it. Dignified. Honest. It was why she asked him for help on an internal issue she had been dealing with the day they parted, he had the means to carry it and offer some form of advice.

"It's nothing. I guess I didn't realise how talented you were at a young age."

This embarrasses him totally.

"I... well, how old are you?"

"Asking a lady a question like that?"

He looks pointedly at her.

"Thirty-seven." Recently turned, but that doesn't make it any better.

"Oh."

"Younger than you thought?" She asks with a sly grin, watching his embarrassment turn into mortification. It was making her wish that they got more chances to talk like this, now that she knew how much fun could be had in just winding him up a little.

"I did not—I mean…" He squints slightly as her smile gets wider. "Teasing?"

"You're getting the hang of it."

Another question pops in her mind but then a rustling sound is heard before she can begin. Simultaneously they both look to the direction of the woods, Patience has returned and Aveline can see that she's a lot calmer, less anger in her face. Perhaps that interlude did have it merits. Aveline was certainly in a more amicable mood, there's a spring in her movements when she stands.

"The wanderer returns! Ready to try this again?"

Patience nods, "I still want my charm back," she looks at Connor who has also gotten to his feet, "and I will find it soon even if you won't give it to me."

Aveline bites her lip to stop herself from laughing at the threat, delivered as if Patience was declaring total war rather than just asking for her possessions back. Connor just shrugs in reply, not bothered and not revealing a thing as she grabs the rope dart from the doll and stands in front of it like she had been doing thirty minutes before.

"Remind me, just how well hidden is that thing?" Aveline murmurs to Connor as he makes to go back to his spot to observe.

"Very. She will not find it."

"Well, cruel mentor, I trust your expertise."

She gets an awkward smile in return, and it fills her with more confidence than before. The rest of the day continues on in that same easier manner, the sense of good-heartedness meaning that she is smooth in her instruction and Patience masters several moves before the sun sets. It's a breakthrough for Aveline, more than anything, gaining a complete sense of comfortableness. Being present and at one with the work.

But she knows that it can't last, and it doesn't. As the night falls and she looks out of the window of her room, peering at the dark shadows of the trees and the ominous blocks that stack against the black sky, that she is reminded that she's never felt more out of place.

But then feeling out of place has always been in her skillset, and she has yet to bat an eyelid at that either.


	5. Connor: The Acquired Taste

A/N: The earliest usage I could find in my books for the first forms of the term 'paranoia' was in early 19th C (1802- written greek/german). I could make the case that it was in oral circulation by the last quarter of the 18th C but I'm missing a PhD in order to do that. As such, I'm going to act like it was in usage 30 years earlier than it actually was. I heartily apologise to all who are shocked with my relentless abuse of etymology, but fic needs must.

**Connor: The Acquired Taste of Neurasthenia.**

In the semi-darkness his breathing is ragged and harsh, making his eyes water. His hands grip at the windowsill tightly, anchoring him to the reality. If he held it any harder he could probably splinter the wood, but his resistance manages to win out. Breaking things didn't do much, as he figured out a while ago.

He considers those hands of his. Strong, able, and dangerous. He's just been reminded how they rendered those warriors unconscious the day Lee sought to lead them to their deaths against the Patriots. They were his brethren. He had grown up with them, started to learn with them before he left the village. As a teenager he thought that their diverted paths, his with the life he chose (he _thought_ he chose) and those with the lives he would have known, they wouldn't be too far apart. Not when they had the same motives, same cares.

He remembers thinking about the foolish teenage ideal of his when his hands went around their mouths and temporarily robbed them of their senses.

They did not know what the consequences of their actions would be. Not like he did.

He breathes in and out slowly for a full minute, fogging up the glass and obscuring the view of Davenport Homestead outside. It's been a long time since he had that particular dream. One he can actually recall rather than just waking up with the traces of terror in his body. It had been the vivid re-enactment of when Lee told his village to rally and fight against Washington's forces and he had to stop it. With it throughout was the accompanying sour irony in that what he had initially wanted was what he had to stop Lee from making them do.

It turned to fear. Total fear. He silenced the warriors but there was still one missing. How strange the view was, the view that dream always took. He was above it, soaring high like a bird—a much more critical eye to see his actions with. He spotted him— he was always the worst at hide and seek. He approached_ (attacked?)_ Kanen'tó:kon. He thought it would be easy to explain the mistake, to someone who knew what they both had to do, what he had to do. But then Kanen'tó:kon had whipped around so quickly and the silver glint of his blade, the one he's always had, was pointed at him.

At Ratonhnhaké:ton. His friend. They'd learnt how to turn into adults together and stood side by side to face the threats that came from all angles. They had the measure of each other, could talk about the future of their home, what they could do, the faith they equally embraced. No matter how alone or alienated he felt in becoming an Assassin and dealing with people so very different from him Ratonhnhaké:ton could always visit his home and find his friend overjoyed to see him, ready to make him feel welcome.

In that moment Kanen'tó:kon wanted to kill him.

Despite the clarity of everything around him, Ratonhnhaké:ton has started to notice that whenever he dreams of Kanen'tó:kon, he becomes blurry. His features not so easy to distinguish. He tries to think of how he looked away from the nightmares for comfort and to his horror he finds that his memory is starting to fail him also. With all that's happened so much is at risk from being pushed from his remembrances and to his horror Kanen'tó:kon is one of them.

The only time Kanen'tó:kon's face becomes outlined properly in his dream is in the final moments. Always. Him splattered with a pattern of his own blood that was pouring out from the wound in his neck. The final mark Ratonhnhaké:ton had left on his dearest friend that he loved fiercely. The blade slid into his skin with a disgusting well-known sound that is a mixture of ruptured flesh, metal and the pure promise of death. On it he woke with a sharp intake of breath, feeling far too hot with sweat on the back of his neck, and raced to the window and away from the dark drapes and smell of heat. The heat of his own fear.

He's calmer now. Able to think. Scan out. A familiar pressure rises in his muscles, making his heart race. He narrows his eyes as he looks at the grounds outside. The distinct suspicion is making him search, rather than gaze. He's looking for something that shouldn't be there. Someone who shouldn't be there. A stranger—an intruder.

He becomes apprehensive, in which anger soon follows. The idea that someone would dare approach this place is rapidly incensing him. But it takes on a second fold. The voices at the back of his mind quietly letting him know that it's happening once more. That word the doctor taught him, something found in his books that he frequently ordered from Boston that came from around the world (costing Connor a small fortune, but the look on White's face was usually worth it). It's new apparently, to the tongues of all: _Paranoea_.

_The process of seeing things that was beyond the mind_. He needed that clarifying specifically. He was good at what he did because he was always seeing what others thought were absent. White tried it with him again. Seeing _threats _that were not there. There is nothing in a ten-mile radius that is going to assault this house, or any of the others on the land. Connor knows that, and yet he feels the need to go outside and just check. Feel the air. According to White it was because of a complex process that could be explained solely by this term.

Connor was not fully sold on it. As much as he respected the man and how he tried to help, the doctor didn't understand. He couldn't. Connor has been chasing and been the chased for so long, the feeling of threat could not go away. He needed it for survival. He knows in his heart what is out there to get him, and if echoes of it remain in places of safety, then it was because of his will to stay alive and to keep those that surrounded him as safe as possible. Enough people had died because of his recklessness.

But that whole set of issues about seeing things that weren't there was so nettling and frustrating to him that he often sought to overlook it. Not consider it too much. Now that he had something that fully occupied him every day he didn't have the time to think about it. He but even though he knows he was told he had to ignore it when the urge arose to check for danger but now, at this hour, he makes to go outside anyway. Because that's what he does. And he doesn't see the point in trying to fight it if doing so makes him feel worse. Besides, while the sun is probably an hour or two away from rising there is no point in trying to force sleep now.

He washes and dresses, padding lightly down the hallway and down the stairs so not to disturb his pupil who is easily disturbed in the night by noise. He knows where every creak is located in the wood and avoids them; ears full of enough noise from the general tune the house makes. The latch on the door is cool to the touch; the metallic click of the lock is ridiculously loud in the semi-darkness. The cool air of the pre-dawn comes over him in a rush as he steps down the porch.

He closes his eyes, breathes, focuses, and then opens.

His sight shoots through the darkness and reveals all. The Homestead beyond lies peaceful and quiet, speckled with gold, like a well-known lullaby. His golden targets, ever present and a reminder of the responsibility of protection he bears. Of course there's nothing out here. There's nothing ever out here that could threaten his targets and if there is, then it's disturbed wildlife. The old enemy has forgotten this house and what it stands for, that or they're dead.

But for Connor his heart thumps that little bit less forcefully and the tightly wounded knot somewhere in the middle of his spine gives. He lets his sight fade, the colours of nature returning to their normal shades, and then goes behind the house.

He's realised that he's found a strange sense of comfort in sitting where Achilles used to if he passes a bad night. It took Connor a few years to realise that his mentor was an early riser because his knee forced him to be. That having to deal with the ache outside was somehow better than inside. He never understood it until a year ago. When energy and agitation was bouncing against four walls it easily became negative. In the open, it could settle around with ease, putting at least a gloss over the ailments.

It also let him reflect more clearly, in a more logical way. A straighter line of thought. The house was full of reminiscences, layers and layers of them overlapping and knocking together. Being outside gave them, and him, more room to concentrate.

However it's not as easy today to sink into the nature around him. He's concentrating and thinking hard but it's on the poisonous memory that bit him in the night. The night is starting to dissipate into the dawn but the air is still hushed. A near silence.

The forest had been this quiet the day he killed his best friend. Connor sits and harshly slams his back against the boulder that sits near the edge of the cliff, anger rising as he goes over and over what his dream has forced him to think about. He had appealed to him. _Peace,_ he pleaded. "_Skén:nen __Kanen'tó:kon" _The same word Johnson used but Ratonhnhaké:ton actually knew what it meant. Johnson tried to quieten, placate—_dominate_. Using the word like a concealed weapon to twist people to his authority. Peace was meant to be a yield to the balanced self, to serenity. Ratonhnhaké:ton was looking at his best friend and he willed him to return to his own senses. But something was missing, like the noises of the forest that he used to know. The war had disrupted the poise of nature, and the steadiness of Kanen'tó:kon's mind. It was violently swung in one direction, and away from him.

Connor balls his hands into fists as he looks out over the cliff. He wishes he knew why he had to be plagued as he was in the night. Dreams were supposed to be important, to tell you things. Reliving Kanen'tó:kon's death seemingly had no purpose. He could learn nothing. He had his hand forced in killing him because otherwise it would be a reversed story and Ratonhnhaké:ton would be dead, the chances that he thought existed and had yet to take would be gone, and his people would have been slaughtered. Again.

If the dreams are trying to make sure that he does not forget his faults then he wishes they wouldn't bother. Not a day goes by where he doesn't think about it. He has nothing left for Charles Lee. Nothing. He refuses to spend any more vitriol on that man. That means he only has himself to criticise. He thought that if he was bad at negotiating with the patriots or his father, he understood at least how to deal with his own people. They were his family after all; he knew them like the pathway it took to get to them. It didn't matter what Lee had said, Ratonhnhaké:ton should have been able to combat it, to be _better_. To still have the ability to convince his people that all of his work had been for them over some stranger who wanted to wipe them off the land.

He returned after killing Lee, never feeling more at one with his people. Feeling like he finally represented them, and had done his task for them. He came home—They were all gone. A spirit told him he'd never get what he wanted, he could never return home. He thought about finding them numerous times however, damn what that woman said. Especially in the immediate aftermath when the large expanse of the rest of his life was stretched out in front of him, as flimsy and slippery as silk. He had spent six months recovering from an injury that brought him to the edge of death, and he thought he had nothing left in this area anymore. Why not move as they had and follow them? The answer was like a sledgehammer to the heart. He was not told for a reason. Oiá:ner saw it in him before he did, that he was too tied to the north. Too many things had happened and Ratonhnhaké:ton would drag their afflictions with him no matter where he went. Life in the village had frozen for him the moment he left at fourteen and it had changed too much for him to ever return.

He had changed too much. Severed off and scratched by the lands he sought to liberateby a scar across his stomach that makes itself known almost every day. He needs to see his marks and experiences and the unique perspective he has been bestowed as a boon, not a burden. He let his hair grow to signify that, to tell himself that he was to return to a form of harmony. But the dreams make it difficult, pulling him backwards when he is adamant to walk forwards. The scar is capable of delivering blinding pain if he lets his attention slip, if he so much as tries to let go of the strain.

He stretches his legs out to even out the tension he feels in them, sitting against a boulder awkwardly. His hand presses against his scar as it's decided to start tweaking in discomfort. No matter about doing it openly, there's no one out here at this moment in time to see him like this. Light is beginning to peek out over the far mountain range, the blue gloom blending to warm orange like a watercolour.

It feels unreal. But he's getting used to that odd sensation alongside the urge to check for danger. Often he has trouble gripping on to what his life is now. Time throws him from one thing to another and rather than get sick from the motion he's shut himself off against it instead. Training Patience has at least centred him, fixed him to a spot for a short while. She has given him much to work with, as she is far from ready and needs a few months more before he can consider her ready.

He runs a hand over the rock behind him and feels the smooth surface, the work of the rain over many years. The texture is pacifying. His mind is less frazzled now, and he can think about issues that should demand his attention. Like that of Patience's time already spent here. Aveline had been perceptive about her nature. The more her and Connor stripped back Patience's bad habits in order to make her an Assassin, the faster they were at uncovering a very scared teenager. She was a master at hiding it under a guise of antagonism, but her practice of running off was a huge giveaway. All humans found the urge to flee difficult to overcome when faced with the possibility of failure. While he didn't know everything, he figured Patience had probably faced enough failure and disappointments; he couldn't blame her for wanting to avoid coming back into contact with it.

Connor himself managed to stick at it, the relentless training and the constant mistakes and facing the threat of the end of his people, because at fourteen the resentment he drove inwards was stronger than the fear of bearing obligation and the threat of disaster that accompanied it. It didn't matter what Achilles told him in an attempt to make him feel better. He would have made it back to the village sooner, reached his mother sooner, had he not been found by the Templars and beaten unconscious. His lack of awareness (something Ista _insisted_ that he maintain at all times) meant he didn't see them coming at all. He worked to make sure that he would never be that inattentive again, to see everything, and be ready.

The appliance of time and becoming a mentor has shown him that perhaps it wasn't the best mentality to have. He has sought to encourage his Assassins in different ways, using their vast array of talents for motivation rather than using any dark parts of their life as a fuel. This is the first time this method has ever vexed some he's taught. Patience had an overreliance on her charm that separated her from her own instincts, making her dither without it. This lack of confidence mixed with the need to start her training from a blank slate has simply made her think that she has no strong points to work on. He must have heard her argument of how she is apparently 'blind' without her charm so many times but he believes (privately) that if she learnt how to see again, she wouldn't want to use it anymore.

Before she came here, he had an idea of how difficult it was going to be, but seeing the reality of it has been an experience. The addition of another mentor certainly has. He handled the unexpectedness of Aveline's boarding but now the shock has worn off he's realised that he's been alone for a lot longer than he originally thought. Having people around in such a small space unnerves him, and he berates himself for it. He's grateful that Aveline laughs it off whenever he starts at the sight of her but he privately battles the edginess. Which in turn annoys him further. He doesn't want to be this ill at ease with others he's invited in and to have to squash a strange inner disquiet, more so with an Assassin he respects hugely and had worked with in the past.

She's not imposing either, being as silent as a mouse around the manor. And her presence has been vital, more so recently. Against Patience's refusals and uncertainty Aveline has been a solid wall of resistance, never cracking under the pressure. He didn't understand a week ago why she thought that her supposed temper was hampering the training. They did have to be careful as to how far they could drive against Patience's boundary of insecurity but they had to start breaking it down somewhere. If it meant a few "interludes" (as Aveline described them) before they could start to see the progress, he'd take them. He only hoped that his own confidence in being to able figure out Patience's methods as her mentor would keep hold as the weeks went on.

He wonders how long Aveline is going to stay- not for the entire time, surely. She must have other responsibilities. But then he reminded himself that she wasn't in New Orleans anymore- not like he thought. He had no idea she had been in the north for so long, that it had somehow escaped his notice. He dug out her letters last week to remind himself of her past and her struggles, but it was obvious now she had found new horizons. He found it admirable, her work on liberating the land from this disease that paraded around under a different name. He'd been able to find out more about it recently. But as she told her tales of near misses and heavy, drawn out missions he noticed that she was slimmer. And he didn't know how to put it exactly, but also she seemed harder. Her hazel eyes had a flintiness layered in them and her cheekbones looked more pronounced, her jawline constantly set. It didn't change how she looked, she was still rather alluring with her humour still sharp, but there was something inexplicably different. She carried more authority with her but it seemed like it had been a difficult gain. This was certainly not someone who would ask him whether she should stay with the Assassins, or admit feeling a total lack of conviction in rebuilding a suffering Brotherhood as she had in her letters.

But three years is a considerable amount of time. His entire life collapsed around him in three years. Changes were bound to happen. Also he had to consider that the distinction between knowing someone through letters and sharing a space with them was a vast one. Letters allowed a form of personal expression that could be difficult to transfer into audible words; it's why he liked them so much. They knew a certain amount about each other, about their difficulties and struggles, through the use of written words but in the here and now it felt strange to try and bring that up in conversation. It wasn't as easy to recall the facts and moods, to express them adequately or appropriately.

He wonders if he should try to renew that kind of comradeship though. More so Aveline would be less estranged while living here. Training Patience is new for her, or that training in Connor's style is. He should've realised that, as he knew how they had immensely different experiences with their mentors. She glossed over a lot, but when he reread those letters he was reminded of just how dissimilar they were. She had clashed with Agaté, and spent much of her time to find the Company Man without consulting him because of how he responded with negativity. The most telling of all was that she said they were fighting the day he took his life.

He would not be able to apprehend what that was like. He had his spats and almighty rows with Achilles, and that one particular time just after he had finished helping Aveline, where he stormed off in bad taste, not returning for four months as he went on the hunt for Church with his father. There was no getting away from the fact however that Connor was brought up by him, gave him at least some form of kinfolk he could rely on. Such an inspiration had meant he carried it on to his own recruits, no matter what their age was, and they in turn seemed grateful also. Since he lost his people, he felt even more how important that could be.

If he could somehow get Aveline to see it from his viewpoint, it could make her feel more relaxed with the training.

The first ray of yellow sunlight streaks through the sky and the blue night rises upwards to become pale in colour. There's not a cloud to be seen. It's going to be another hot day. While he learned to like the summer, appreciate the vitality and brazenness it brings to the Homestead over the associations he used to have with it, there were still drawbacks: Namely in the form of imposing heat affecting already hot heads. Still, he dreads to think of the upcoming winter and trying to train Patience in the basement. No matter what self-assurance he may portray when she's around, he knows that once they move indoors, a lot of the weapons are going off the list for practise. He's not increasing the chances of getting hit in the face with a sharp object any more than he has to.

A twig snaps behind him on his left and he twists round to look at the sound of the noise, inciting a sharp stab of protest from his abdomen. He barely registers it however, his action so fast it makes the approaching person jump about half a foot in the air. She covers the shock as well as she can.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to startle you. You looked lost in thought"

He wonders how long Aveline's been there, and how he didn't notice her. She's fully dressed for the day like he is, although without her usual jacket and hat. She's also pulled her braids out of the low ponytail, sweeping them across her right shoulder.

"Is something wrong?" He makes to get up but she stops him with a raised hand, making to sit on top of the rock.

"Not at all, I just woke too early and thought I should get my bearings. I didn't realise you were out here."

She sits back far enough so that she's not too close to him. He's noticed that more often recently, how conscious she is of personal space. His personal space. He feels indebted that he's finally met someone who seems to understand the discomfort he always thought he made painfully obvious to those around him, and try to accommodate it. He's spent years trying to check it, but without much success. But as with Patience's mentoring, and her being in the house, he doesn't like to think that his habits are making him an encumbrance on her. Or he's making things more complicated than they need to be.

"That's one hell of a sunrise."

He nods absentmindedly. The sun is still low in the sky but it's golden hues stretch across the landscape over the cliff, highlighting the leaves and the river in bronze and silver. It's been a while since he's actually taken stock of the sunrises at the Homestead. He's become used to them. Having fresh eyes on the area reminds him of how fortunate he is to be still surrounded by the scenery, especially these days when he was hearing more and more rumours on how people were planning to 'capitalise' on the area- in other words tear it to shreds. It's becoming an increasingly powerful worry of his that the Homestead will get swept up in these changes, and that he will fail his duty to Achilles to continue to develop and cultivate this small slice of rapture that had provided succour and safety to many.

Obviously, such a worry was hidden away from everyone. Because in the face of the new world and the new free land they all now apparently lived on, it was remarkable to note just how much of it really wasn't certain in terms of autonomy and safety.

"It's really beautiful." She mumbles quietly, pulling him out of his dark thoughts as he can hear the awe in her voice. "Is the rest of the Homestead like this?"

He nods, "There are better spots than this for the view."

"I bet there are."

They sit in silence for a few minutes and watch the sunrise develop. As the sun lifts higher, it's like the volume also increases around them. Noises of the forest nearby seemingly get louder, coming to life, and a slight breeze picks up and flits through the branches. The heat is beginning to make itself known, even this early in the morning. He has the distinct feeling he's going to find it difficult to concentrate today, even without the aftershock of the nightmare still lingering in the back of his consciousness.

"Connor?" Her voice again brings him out of bitter pondering.

"Hm?"

"Would you show me these other places?"

He looks at her, confused, "Other places?"

"As in walk me around here? I feel I should understand this place a bit better, if I'm going to stay for a while. And um… I don't like not knowing my way around an area."

He blinks, he never thought about the fact that Aveline had never been around here. He should have clocked on to that the first night she arrived.

"Yes, of course." He stands up, "We can start now, if it suits you."

She's surprised, drawing her knees up to her chest. "Start? How many walks would it take?"

"A few. That is if you want to see everything. The area is much larger than most people realise."

"Will we have the time? I don't want to cut into training."

"I know Patience is behind on her reading." because recently she would rather spend her spare hours wandering about chatting to the Homesteaders. He was glad she had finally found some sort of connection here after six weeks, but it has its problems. Ellen was frequently telling him that while she was happy Maria had someone to talk to, she was beginning to be concerned that they were getting up to 'shenanigans'. Apparently the chickens seemed to be looking a lot more severely distressed these days.

"She can use the early mornings to catch up."

And it would end another little dispute they were also having. She could no longer moan that he wasn't giving her enough time to study and he was being mean and unfair. He doesn't want to impose on Aveline however, and tries to look indifferent. She thinks on it for a moment before affirming.

"Well, okay." The corner of her mouth twitches. "Only if you're happy to do this every day at this hour."

He would be happy to, the more he thinks on it. If there was actively something to do in the small hours of the morning; it could help chase the cobwebs of the night away. Feel more with it, more present earlier in the day and rediscover a land he's begun to feel out of touch with. He thinks Aveline would probably find this explanation peculiar, so he shrugs instead, starting to think about where they could begin with the routes.

"I like rising early."

She seems content with that, a spark of weird recognition in her eyes. She gets up and dusts herself down with a slight smile. She sweeps her arms out, indicating to the view beyond the cliff.

"_Allons-y_, then. I'm curious to see how much better a view like this can get. I almost have trouble believing that what's in front of me right now is real."


	6. Aveline: Restive Development

**Aveline: Restive Development**

The air is full of sweet and savoury smells, made more potent in the warm air. It's late afternoon, but the light and heat is still strong, allowing plenty more time for frivolity. Today, those chances are being taken in name of celebration, and many people sit and mill around outside 'The Miles End'.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay by yourself honey?"

Aveline attempts not to react to the term, offering a small smile at the kind woman who has a hand on her arm and looking at her with all of the concern of a mother.

"I'll be fine Prudence." She manages to reply, despite her throat tightening up. "It's just a little too warm for me."

"Sure. I can't remember when we had such a hot summer, you came at the right time!"

The kind woman pats her elbow with a fond air and Aveline excuses herself from the group of women, hoping they don't see how uncomfortable she must look, or that she feels a little out of breath. Spotting the wall of the inn that is completely in the shade and no longer occupied by a fatigued partygoer, she makes a beeline. With great restraint she carefully sits down with her back against it, and only allows herself to properly breathe out once the cool shadow covers her completely.

So no one tries to approach her, she makes to be the picture of relaxation: one leg lying straight and the other bended towards her chest, her arm resting on the knee. She swallows, trying to accommodate to the sick, squeezing feeling occupying somewhere just under her ribs. Her eyes watch everywhere while her thoughts full her to try and smoother the disquiet.

She can't remember whose birthday it is, but it's significant and has given an excuse for the owners of the inn to hold a party outside for everyone. And they meant everyone too. Residents, visitors, and passers by. There is food everywhere, and laughter, chatter, and everything else in between. Some of the guests are playing cards, others are gossiping in circles like the one she just excused herself from, and the children wreck havoc chasing each other and picking flowers in the garden.

She never thought she'd be a part of something so simple and so alien as a birthday party with locals. Patience had dragged her here, having already executed a well-planned request to end training early. Aveline agreed initially because she was curious. Curious to know the people that lived here and she had only seen sporadically, and interested to see what kind of life really went on here. However after an hour, the slow building apprehension was beginning to hinder the mind, making her lose the thread of conversations and wondering if people were just being overly polite in including her and whether she was being annoying. A small part of her knew she was being ridiculous, but it wasn't loud enough for her to hone on and listen to. Once the trio of ladies she was with noticed her that her cheeks were flushing, partly due to her quiet unrest, part in due to Ellen's conversation (she was refusing, much to Corrine's torture, to name the man who was the target of her _intense_ newfound affections), it was an excuse on a plate, claiming mild heat exhaustion.

Now that she has a spot for herself, where time feels slower and she's more in control, the quiet voice that told her everything was fine is more audible. For the whole afternoon no one has excluded her, all fighting to introduce themselves and ask her kind questions, being genuinely attentive with her. They were interested to know that she was Patience's teacher who had decided to stay and help her 'settle in', and became even more animated when she explained she was originally from New Orleans.

They were all incredibly sincere people, seemingly unsuspicious and non-judgemental of the outsider. However, the longer she spent in their company and talking to them, she realised she wasn't exactly a rarity. Most of them came from all walks of life and had vastly different experiences. A French woman from New Orleans was hardly striking amidst a miner who married a huntress, a man who went on the run from the British army and a pair of Scottish brothers who never, ever seemed to stop squabbling.

Her eyes find Patience amidst the thrall of festivity. She was sitting on the grass near the table of food and in the middle of teaching Hunter, Warren and Prudence's young boy, how to eat a particularly large slice of fruitcake. The six year old copied in earnest, even though the slice he had been given was obscene and crumbs were going everywhere. Watching her quickly reminds Aveline that it's been over ten weeks since she first came here. Realising it for the first time had shocked her. It had been years since she stayed in one place for so long, and for something that wasn't a mission. But time was passing easily here. Training Patience made the hour's dissolve, more so now that at last they were getting on better and Aveline was adapting to the training methods. Yesterday was particularly momentous. After Patience had mastered an exceptionally tricky sword move Aveline was showing her, Patience had surprised her by turning around and beaming at her. Automatically she had smiled back, embracing a sense of accomplishment that had long been foreign to her. Her student was at last beginning to see her own talents, and no longer asked for her charm every time she slipped up.

Aveline feels bad currently however, at how she's now encountering a pang of jealousy towards her ward. Patience seemed to integrate so well, and this party was fun for her, not a bother. Aveline always felt estranged from these atmospheres, at any event that required an essence of merriment with bodies clustered together and discussion at every angle. It incited within her a survival instinct to perform, to act and conceal. What she's present at now is an entire world away from a New Orleans social but the ambiance smacked of familiarity, and so was the response she automatically gave. She perfected the manners needed for those balls even before she was an Assassin. When her _maman _has suddenly gone and then the world shifted and she had to act _grown up. _The dresses started getting heavier and squeezing her body into a particular shape. The hat with her favourite ribbon disappearing and she never did find out where it went and instead she had to hide her hair underneath a wig.A child aged ten who always had to be perfectly behaved at a function, hiding behind her father's legs as his business associates peered at her, scrutinizing her skin. Her father always made jokes with her at those horrid things though. Making faces at the backs of those same men and muttering that they were all _imbéciles prétentieux _and telling her to take no notice. That one day they would be kissing her feet in order to obtain her business.

If he could see her now. The attempt is made to swipe him out of mind. There's no need to start down that path. Anyways, at this moment Aveline could be in worse places. She also knows she's being impractical. Silly. This sensation in the pit of her stomach is baseless, with no need for it. She wishes she didn't have it churning inside her and that it made her have to temporarily isolate herself from people who have been nothing but charming to her. On the other hand, she can't become inundated with unwanted memories, especially about her father. She shut that box long ago.

She tilts her head back so it gently touches the wall and closes her eyes, listening. Eavesdropping on those having fun, not weighed by connotations and associations. The grass rustling under busy feet and the river rushing far off, providing an easy thrum of background noise. This place had its own tune, a distinct signature of foliage in the breeze and birds calling. The sound of Utopia, maybe, and Aveline was beginning to adopt them into her mind and think of them as normal. The outlines of the area were growing more familiar all the time, even the manor itself. Her room was now a place of comfort, and eating in the kitchen was no longer awkward for her.

She breathes deep and slow. Maybe it had been overtly rude to suddenly quit that conversation and she should go and find those women again. She was in her thirties, for crying out loud, talking about demonstrative gentlemen shouldn't be require a form of daring—

"Are you alright? Prudence said the heat was bothering you."

She leans her head forward to see Connor standing on the border of the shaded area, hands clasped together and trying for all the world not to look imposing.

"It was a little."

She pauses, wondering when he got here, and why. This morning he adamantly refused to be persuaded by Patience to join in today's revelries after training, stating to young Assassin that there were plenty of other things he needed to do with the spare time. Twenty minutes was spent thereafter with the two of them bickering about responsibility and the danger of being completely boring before Aveline politely cut in with a reminder about the time.

Connor seems to read her puzzled look and shrugs, looking additionally sheepish.

"I was er… hunted down ten minutes ago and threatened by Corrine to spend some time here."

She frowns at his choice of words, "You were threatened by that kindly lady?"

"She can be quite forceful."

Squinting at him as he stands in the sunlight, she grins. She won't tell him that in the past hour she's learnt more about him and his exploits here than she has in the entirety of ten weeks. The main things these people did that made her feel secure at this party was of the one simple fact that they all adored Connor and had no hesitation in telling her so. It made her less conspicuous in herself. This lot either didn't know or didn't care about Connor's lifestyle, meaning they wouldn't care about hers.

More importantly she also learnt of the escapades he got up to here, which had been proven as valuable ammunition for future teasing. Heck, Prudence herself told Aveline that she needed to make a pig reference at some point and see how he would react. Apparently he still hated being made to reminisce about it.

"Can I sit?"

He asks so cautiously that it makes Aveline raise an eyebrow.

"This is your turf, knock yourself out."

"If you want to be left alone, it does not bother me."

She laughs, sharp, and startling him.

"I've noticed recently that a lot of things don't bother you. Be seated, mentor."

He wavers for a split second before sitting (laboriously, she notices) next to her. His legs crossed and still keeping those hands clasped. It makes her wonder what's making him sit like that, so carefully closed off. Though she's not one to talk, she's literally sitting in the dark to avoid people.

"I can't have a conversation with myself anyway." She offers. Although that's not true. She does it on a regular basis. But that would probably disturb him if she tried to explain it.

"I appreciate that there are those who like to be left alone." He replies quietly as they both observe the celebratory scene.

"True. But I could probably do with some company."

He turns his head slightly towards her. "Is something wrong?"

"Uh... no, nothing is wrong, exactly."

His silence is an inquiry in itself, and she wonders if it would be possible to explain this. Wouldn't hurt to try. Since they had started a staple routine of meeting in the morning to walk around the Homestead, their companionship had warmed up considerably. They didn't always talk during those excursions, but spending more time in each other's presence thawed out the association of them being strangers. The walks themselves were one of the best parts of her day. The act of moving purposely, concentrating on the different types of trees and fauna that Connor pointed out to her, listening to the air and honing her senses in getting acquainted to the clamours of the Homestead—all a fantastic distraction.

"I was just being silly about something. Remembering things."

"This reminds you of something?"

She nods, meeting his look. "Before my father died, he regularly used to host these massive balls—parties." She added, noticing Connor's confusion. She nods to the view in front of them.

"Nothing like this however. Balls are extremely elaborate and purely for the rich, usually in some noble's oversized house. The women wear dresses that are bigger than them, and there are set dances and modes of conversation you have to learn for them."

Looking at the reactions on his face was hilarious. He was obviously attempting to picture it, and totally failing.

"It's more of a social… battleground, then a party for fun—like this."

"That sounds terrible." He grimaced, afraid of causing offence, "I mean—"

"No, you're right. Remind me to invite you back to New Orleans so you can have the pleasure of experiencing them."

"I hope you are not serious."

"I'm always serious." Now that would be something, Connor dressed in a stiff, formal suit and navigating the social niceties. From his manner alone, Aveline knew that the eligible women of New Orleans would make all the attempts to devour him or attempt abduction in order to send him straight to father for approval, _more_ so if they all thought he was from 'that part' of Europe— the part where all the dreadful wine came from.

"You went to many of these things?"

"I was dragged to them the moment I could be taught how to obtain a posture. I hated them. Still do. But…"

Her nails dig into her palm but she can't stop it. She notes to how Connor's eyes flicker to the action briefly, but nevertheless says nothing.

"I don't know. Seeing people together like this and having more fun…"

The squeezing beneath her ribs is tightening, trying to force her to avoid using the word that is rolling around her mouth. But under Connor's openly interested stare, the sense of embarrassment lessens, making it easier.

"It's a thousand times more genuine than a New Orleans masquerade but for some reason it's making me homesick."

She can feel herself recoiling at the usage of that term. _Homesickness_. Especially when she thinks about it in more detail. How she despised the balls with their mock sociality and community. How she felt stripped alive, year after year, with comments on the verge of her hearing. But then her father was also interwoven between the horrid parts of her memory. Popping in and out between the dire people. Ready to point out how god-awful that woman's hat was. Mention how a particular noble had seemingly claimed a new 'jewel' for his bower. Even just simply holding her hand and telling her that there was nothing to fear so long as he was there. That's what she misses, and gripes nostalgically for. Seeing these people, a huge family, laughing and joking, is a memoir of what she can no longer have.

She looks away from Connor, unable to deem his expression- or not really wanting to.

"Um… it's a strange thing to say."

"No."

She glances at him enquiringly as he unclasps his fingers to gesture briefly at the Homesteaders.

"And I understand. These people are very different, but in their own way they remind me of my village."

"You're not from here?"

"I am from here," He puts his hand to the ground, "But not from here."

Aveline thinks for a moment, trying to discern what he meant rather than ask. She thinks about the things she's seen around the manor that have often caught her eye, but she always forgot to ask about. That one time when Connor left the door to his room open and she'd been fascinated by what she could half glimpse on the walls, but never dared went in.

She thinks about what she knows of the area, what she knows of Connor. She studies his profile, and it clicks. There's a wave of mortification, as she wonders just how on earth she never so much as perceived it before.

"The villages… the ones here long before the colonists."

"Yes," His delight at her accurate guess has an immediate affect on her, lessening her embarrassment.

"I grew up among my mother's people—_my_ people. The Kanien'kehá:ka"

"Kanien'kehá:ka." Aveline tastes the word as she repeats it, emphasising every bounce. The idea that Connor belonged to another world entirely but had it swapped for something else, was extremely fascinating.

(She was so unaware that they were even alike in that manner.)

"You left your people to become an Assassin?"

"When I was asked to."

"So, the frontier isn't really the frontier for you, is it?"

He deliberates on her question for a moment, before turning away to look at the world around them. She gets the distinct notion that she's been the first person to ask a question of that nature to him.

"Not in the sense that the colonists see it. They do not know the land whereas I grew up on it. It is not a 'barrier' of any kind for me. However, it is the common term used by most."

At his words she realises how a lot of things are making sense for her, especially when it considered his mannerisms. She knew when she first came here he preferred the outdoors to anything, but it was beyond just a preference. It was a connection. His hands were always running over rocks or between tall grasses, eyes darting everywhere. It eerily reminded her of her own behaviour when she was in the Bayou, Agaté joking that it wasn't going to go anywhere if she closed her eyes for more than a second.

The association brings back the melancholy with a full force, and the dreaded homesickness. She had been so far away from her own territory for so long. Permitted, she was never comfortable there anymore, but still. For Connor to be so close to his roots…

"Why don't you return back to your lands more often, if they're that close by?"

His reaction is not what she's expecting, which is for him to sit upright and uneasily look at the ground. For an outlandish and fleeting second, her mother enters her thoughts.

"I can no longer do that."

"Why? Surely there's nothing stopping you."

"There is."

Connor's tone is a sure fire indicator that she should stop this line of questioning right now. But in a realm of her nostalgia and sudden knowledge about his life, her curiosity reigns.

"You could take time out to do it and could visit—"

Connor cuts across her as swiftly as he would to an enemy in battle.

"You cannot visit what is not there."

"What?"

He finally takes his eyes off the ground and looks at her, eyes hard.

"My people are all gone."

Aveline is too shocked to be mortified or disconcerted. "_Gone?_"

He nods, his lips pulling tightly into a thin line. "They moved. Or rather they left before those I helped liberate the land could push them off it."

"The new government you mean. Why would they push them off?"

"To use the land as payment for soldiers." He scoffs, something she's never heard him do before. "Apparently there was no real money to award, so they gave those who risked their lives with a kind of wealth they do not know how to use."

Aveline blinks, incredulous. How did this never catch her notice, all that time she spent hacking at the slave trade? She dedicated her life to knowing and preventing atrocities but this had been going on so quietly, even those whose primary function was liberation didn't see it.

"They can't have just went away like that."

_And left you behind._

It's an unspoken addition, but from the way he flinches as if he's been stung shows that in some way, Connor had heard it. At that very visible reaction does she realise what she's been doing, what's she been _saying_. She was trying to bury her wistfulness but at the same time had unearthed what was clearly a malicious subject for him.

A silence is hanging between them, and she damningly knows it's her doing.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"They did, because they had to."

She bites her lip, as Connor once again directs his attentions to the floor. It's impossible to avoid detecting how his hands have turned to fists.

"I do not blame them for leaving. They had been put under enough suffering at the whims of men from the colonies, if they wanted to avoid this new government from adding to it, then who was I to stop them? Or follow them."

Aveline remains quiet, fully resenting ever so much as asking him about his childhood and his family. Connor still focuses on the grass in front of him, his voice getting colder with every word.

"Besides, I said I would keep them from danger. It was the whole reason why I took the Creed, and in the end I put them in harms way. In short, they left because of me."

Her reaction is instinctive, a reaction. She may have been feeling a dour remorse at her words, but fires up at the sound of such a venomous self-imposed accusation. Her voice is every bit as tough as his.

"That can't be true. I don't believe you."

He raises his head up and looks at her directly in the eyes. The hardness from his is gone, but they've not returned to their usual welcoming warmth. He looks lost and unsure at her declaration.

"It is what I know."

Aveline wishes she knew what to say. She doesn't know his past as well as she'd like but she has a hundred arguments ready for him. Ready to shoot down that view he had of events in his life, and how he saw himself in them.

Yet, in the face of his sudden vulnerability that which she wrenched out of him it doesn't feel appropriate. Enough injury has been done.

"I'm sorry."

"I…" He trails off. He struggles before nodding at her amicably, "I have to return to my work."

He gets to his feet, brushing off the stray blades of grass. He looks at her with such kindliness it makes the guilt twist even harder in her chest.

"Also," he hesitates, "Patience has been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes."

He gives her a tense smile before turning on his heel and walking off, being stopped briefly by the blacksmith before heading back to the manor. Aveline watches him go, unable to think. The terrible, sickening feeling is increasing, and she is half tempted to act on it and get up to go after him, even though she has nothing to say. Before she can debate on it, Patience rushes up, crashing next to her. Aveline manages to pull it together in order to give her a bemused look.

"Yes?"

Patience grins, eyes glittering, clearly on a slight sugar high from the cake

"Doctor White said there was a letter for you."

"For me?"

The girl whips it out from nowhere and drops it in her lap, making Aveline stretch out her legs so she can look at it.

"Whose it from? A lover? Or is it a secret contract?"

She can barely hear the banter. Rather, Aveline's heart turns to lead as she stares at her name written on the front. She feels her throat going raw. Noticing that she's being surveyed, she again controls her expressions carefully, batting at her semi-innocent and overly nosey student.

"Away, you. And stay off the sweet stuff."

Patience gives her one last grin before bouncing off with probably every intention to ignore Aveline's instruction and to locate and secure more cake. Aveline doesn't watch her though, as her eyes remained transfixed to this initially unimposing letter, taking in every curve and loop made by the ink on the page.

If she didn't feel bad after she watched Connor walk off like he did, the unpleasantness she encounters at the sight of the familiar handwriting is absolutely a hundred times worse. She gets to her feet, shivering slightly as she thinks that she spent too long in the shade, and heads for the manor. There's been enough socialisation today with their subsequent disasters, and now she's on the threshold of opening up another one with the envelope in her hands.


	7. Connor: They Name Hurricanes

**Connor: They Name Hurricanes**

"I will not tell you again," he implores, raising his voice over the sounds of the river. He had decided to move the target practice closer to the riverbank today for a change of scenery, and for the slight breezes that bounces off the skin of the water, cooling the air.

"Sit still."

He's barely finished his instruction before he gets a loud and curt reply that makes him fear for his eardrums.

"But it hurts!"

"It will hurt even more if you keep agitating it. Sit _still_."

From where he sits on a crate with Patience sitting on the ground in front of him he puts his thumbs at the base of her neck, pushing down on the skin. She continues to twist and writhe, and Connor can only ignore the continuous grumbling as he feels the trapezius with his fingertips, her spine jutting out disturbingly from under her shirt. He tries not to feel too alarmed at that; he's given up on trying to put more weight on her because no matter how much he cooks there is no fighting her nervous energy that burns it all off. As far as he could tell, she wasn't dangerously bony, and they weren't overworking her. It looks as if she is always going to be that slight. He consoles himself with the fact that it will make her less easy to attack or catch, as well as being less imposing and not noticeable as a threat. Walking down a street in Boston at the wrong time of night for him often resulted in attempting to avoid several drunken men challenging him to fights, because his stature alongside his skin colour meant he was always clearly asking for one. To be fair, he wasn't always able to resist. That and joining the Brawlers made him rather high profile anyway. Practice made perfect.

As he moves further down her back he feels more tension, taking him closer to the source of pain. Not that he needs to use his fingers to concentrate on where it is as Patience is so clearly trying to help him with verbal indications.

"Ow, ow… OW."

"Stop it."

He hears a chuckle at the sound of his exasperation and he lifts his head up, peeking around Patience's head. Aveline is watching them as she sits on the grass next to a box of arrows, looking entertained. Patience quickly hones in on her.

"Why are _you_ laughing?"

Aveline grins, "Because it's funny."

"My agonies are _funny_?" The dramatic air in which Patience announces this makes Connor roll his eyes. He finds the more troublesome knots in her muscles, wondering if the source of the discomfort is around the middle of her back. Not the best muscles to pull and injure.

"You're going to have to get very friendly with this kind of pain, Patience." Aveline replies sweetly, plucking an arrow from the box and twirling it between her fingers absentmindedly.

Patience sticks out her chin. "I am used to it, I'm good at handliiiiiing—_OW_! Fucking hell Connor!"

Found it at last. Having worked out the kink, he then uses the flat of his palm to rub in a circular motion over the tender spot—all the while completely oblivious to the fast stream of swear words that are vaguely directed at him. That's another thing about her he's given up on trying to change. It wasn't all that fair to scold her on excessive profanity anyway, given he knows full well what comes out of his mouth during combat and battles. What could he say; soldiers and sailors were bad influences.

Connor makes Patience flex her shoulders while he senses with his palm the muscles underneath. They feel looser, but he sees how gingerly she does it, wincing. That tells him all he needs to know. They'll knot up again if they go back to work. Maybe he upped the skill level too soon. In any case, there will not be anymore training today. He says as much as soon as Patience stiffly gets to her feet and goes straight for the bow left next to the target. He pointedly avoids her scowl, picking up his own and needlessly tests the string with his thumb and index finger.

"But I'm fine now! It only hurts a little!"

"You can't risk causing more damage when they're still sore," Aveline pipes up, still sitting. "It'll hurt more."

Patience is quick to turn on her. "I thought you said I had to get used to the pain?"

"Yeah, I did. It has nothing to do with the fact that if you shoot with tender muscles today you'll pay for it tomorrow in the form of no training for a week."

"That's total rubbish."

Aveline's smile turns, sickly sweet. "Try me."

Patience gives off a small scowl and picks up her jacket, walking vaguely in the direction of the inn. Thinking it safe to now lift up his head, Connor calls after her.

"Patience."

She spins around in a mockery of calling to military attention.

"No chicken chasing. Do not bother Lance either."

A suspicious smirk creeps across her face, "He said he had a flying machine though."

Connor manages to hide his irritation for the inventor. He told him to keep the more 'eccentric' objects a secret. "No, he does not."

"Wait until he builds it."

"Wait, what?" Aveline interjects, head turning between the both of them and totally confused. Connor ignores her, still challenging his ward.

"You could do your reading instead."

She laughs in response and slopes off, trilling the word 'boring' as she goes along her way. It's then he catches Aveline's disturbed expression.

"Should we be concerned about the flying machine?"

"No. That thing Lance made didn't resemble anything like flying."

"You tested it?" She asks, suspicious.

"'Tested' is not a word I would use."

Aveline grins at his response, and Connor wonders if she's trying to picture it in her head. She'd have no luck with that; the thing was too ridiculous for the human imagination to conjure.

"Well," Aveline looks towards the direction of where Patience walked off, "let's hope she doesn't follow in your footsteps."

Connor shrugs. He's not annoyed at all. He makes a great deal of ensuring that Patience behaves herself around here, emphasising that the training came first. But she's been here for weeks now, and the tense, disquieted girl he had in the couple of days is beginning to change. She looked more relaxed, more at ease with herself. And as he noticed this he found that he didn't mind her curiosity of the area or her friendliness with the Homesteaders.

In fact he was _glad_ of it. Both mentors had managed to temper a good atmosphere for training, which at times often bordered on being rather enjoyable. But Connor knew that the both of them never forgot for a second what they were training her for. To fight against an unbelievably cruel life that would seek to drag her down and put her in chains—or worse. Because of that, the training itself was a form of entrapment. Patience had declared the day after she got here that she wanted to be an Assassin, but Connor was certain she wasn't quite sure what that entailed. The Brotherhood was a lifelong commitment, taking everything you had in you as a person (if you even had anything to begin with) and squashed and moulded it out of shape. With Patience still not fully aware of this, he felt that burden of closing her inside a lifelong pursuit tugging away at him the more skilled she became.

That's why when he sees her chasing after Hunter, or being taught the process of smelting by Dave, or climbing the trees nearby, he decides that he has no right to stop her from this indulgence. In having some freedom that is taken away whenever she trains and will be taken from her indefinitely when she's ready.

(Although she _has_ to stop climbing on to the roof because he simply can't keep replacing the tiles every two or three days.)

It reminds him of what the Homestead used to be for him. Not a complete freedom, how could it when his targets were carefully displayed in the basement downstairs. But the weights on his back—the war, the Templars, the injustice, the protection of the village—he could put them down. Down as in he knew they were still there, and of course he would pick them back up again, but he could at least for a few days or weeks remember what it was like to just simply carry the weight of himself.

He swaps his bow for Patience's and goes to the box of arrows, picking up a couple. Aveline is watching him, bemused, and he says something about just wanting to test it. He's pretty sure Patience is suffering from the practicing because she's using less well-honed muscles, but still. It was good to check.

He positions himself a small distance away from the target. He pulls at the string before he draws, attempting to mimic the force of a skinny sixteen year old. It feels flexible enough. Body positioned awkwardly because of the size of the bow, he draws. Three direct hits to the centre of the target in the space of a minute tell him there's nothing wrong with it.

He can feel his muscles getting itchy; desiring more of that fluid movement he's known all his life. The taunt line and curve and the fletching's whispering between his fingertips when he releases. He relents and picks up his own bow, filling his quiver before going over and putting a greater distance between him and the target. He draws his first arrow slowly, feeling the movements. The force running through his arms, automatically locking into the right position. He holds it. Feeling that bundle of energy before letting go.

Direct hit. He's a lot faster after that. His mind dissolves as he shoots, aiming for different spots on the large wheel, other thoughts entering him. He didn't fail to notice the book Aveline had in her hands as he went to get the arrows, and out of the corner of his eye he can see her sat there now reading it; eyes narrowed with concentration.

He thinks on it. He's mildly surprised. He'd only given her a stack of books last night after dinner. It suddenly struck him yesterday morning as he was shoving books out of the way in an attempt to locate an obscure map in the reading room that Aveline's room was devoid of them. He took them all when he cleared out that space three years ago, and then never filled the shelves with anything else.

He felt silly for not realising how bare that room actually was. So he decided to grab some books from the other rooms. Ones he had read at least. He didn't know if Aveline even liked to read, but given that the summer would be turning over in a few weeks and the nights would cut into the hours for activity, there would be very little for her to do. At least he could give her an option.

He couldn't ignore the other, more pressing reason why he gave them to her. It was a form of… apology. Almost. She had smiled when he presented them to her, rifling through them and it had slightly eased that block of guilt he'd been sheltering since Oliver's birthday five days ago.

After he had left her, and the dourness had drained out of his body a few hours later as he did the ledgers, it occurred to him just how ill mannered he'd been to Aveline. Snapping at her when she asked about his homelands. He'd brought up the subject of his people in the first place, because she was feeling uncomfortable being at the celebrations. And in return she had only been curious, concerned about what happened to them.

He'd never spoken aloud about them before, and how badly he handled it disturbed him.

Internally it always made him tense. It was a bitter subject. Always would be. He kept an eye on congress to see how they were dealing with those issues and his heart only got heavier with every scrap of knowledge thrown his way. He had to distance himself, realise it was overwhelming him because his work would suffer and he was losing focus. It had to be taken for what it could do no one any good as Assassin if he was incapacitated, all because he couldn't take reality. Enough people had lambasted him about that as it was.

That was no excuse to be so defensive with Aveline about it however. How could she have known?

His abdomen starts to ache slightly from the shooting, but he ignores it completely. He'd gone over his actions from that day constantly. How he rebuffed her concern and stalked off afterwards. It mortified him, and continued to do so right up to now. Things had been a little tense since then. When they went for their walk the morning after Aveline had stopped a lot earlier than they usually did, but didn't say a thing. Since then he hasn't known how to bring that conversation up with her. So he could apologise. He was going to say something as he gave her the books, but for some reason the words got lost as he watched look at each one and thanking him before retiring for the night.

He senses Aveline's eyes on him. The shooting stops, there's enough arrows in the wheel. He glances at her, and sees Aveline's face suddenly redden.

"Sorry, am I putting you off?"

"No."

He goes over to pull the arrows out of the target.

She raises an eyebrow, "Are you sure?"

He thinks heavily on that as he plucks at the wood. He could take that as an invitation. An awkward one. But he can't keep pondering on this and he needs to redeem himself for this fellow Assassin he values enormously.

"There was something I wanted to talk to you about."

Her face flickers with confusion, "Oh?"

He decides to stay by the target. A safe distance. Grasping the arrows in both hands, he tries to keep his nerve.

"Yes." He sucks in a deep breath, going over his words before he says them out loud.

"I am sorry for how I acted five days ago. When we spoke at the inn."

He stops for a moment before thinking on how to finish adequately.

"I was… rude."

There is a long pause. So long that Connor averts his eyes from her and looks at the ground because she is just staring. Flickers of panic lick at his insides. He wonders if he hadn't expressed it correctly—or that Aveline won't want to accept his apology.

When she does speak at last, it's not what he anticipated.

"You're joking, right?"

He lifts his eyes at her incredulous tone, baffled. He thought he'd sounded sincere. He wanted to be sincere.

"No? But—"

He doesn't understand what she does next either. Aveline lets out a quiet groan, hand slapping to her forehead and making him flinch.

"I can't _believe_ you jumped in there before me."

Before Connor can say anything, she gets to her feet and takes a step forward, stabbing a finger to the center of her chest.

"_I_ need to apologize for that day, not you." She jabs again, "_I_ harped on at you to talk about something that clearly upsets you" She stills, "I should know better, given that the life of an Assassin is rarely family friendly. So _I'm_ sorry."

He's not taking this in as well as he would like, and he simply blinks. Words are stuck in his mouth and Aveline jumps on his silence, holding her palms up.

"I hope you'll accept my apologies. And I won't be so... tactless, in future.

He's still rather confused, but he knows how to reply to that part of her speech because he was taught it. Still, the standard response twists uneasily in his mouth, his tone lifting at the end.

"Apology accepted?"

She almost huffs with frustration, staring at him with hard eyes. She looks like she's fighting to say something, but then settles with a nod instead.

"I—Great."

He's unsure on what he should say next, turns out he doesn't have to. Aveline sits back down, still looking at him.

"However, I want to talk about something with you. About something you said."

"Okay."

She pats the patch of grass next to her and it takes a moment to understand that action. Slowly he puts the arrows back in the box, and notices how his scar grates inside his skin and flares with a small ache. He sits crossed legged next to her, mimicking her but with this hands clasped together. Aveline's been watching him the entire time.

"You don't have to be nervous."

His hands are so tightly interlocked his knuckles are at the pressure point of cracking. He's not nervous at her. Rather, it's the situation. He's had to sit and have his words re-examined by another before. It's never been a good experience.

Still, it's Aveline. He knows he has nothing to fear. He looks at her with what he hopes is some measure of calm on his face.

"It's about your people. And you."

A thin wire seems to run through his body, and it starts to buzz. Aveline continues.

"I'm telling you that you can't take on that responsibility. No way."

He raises his eyebrows, inquisitive.

"What responsibility?"

"That you are responsible for your people leaving."

The response is so reflexive. Like a brick wall bursting through the earth. He shakes his head.

"But it was my—"

"What happened to them was horrible, for them and for you, but not your fault."

The wall is still there, blocking her words. He's picked this apart by himself so many times. Analyzed every point of his actions. His defense is already completely well formed.

"I misjudged too many people, trusted certain others to hold my interests even when my—there were people who told me not to."

A plethora of people. Not just the first person on the tip of his tongue. Connor thinks of him first because his voice had been the clearest, not to mention the most annoying.

"I did not see it coming, but when I look back on what was happening, I should have. I should have seen it because it appeared to be so simple."

Well, that's a wrong word. It wouldn't have been simple. So many issues, bones of contention and treachery flying everywhere. Washington saying one thing, Achilles another. The Sons of Liberty shouting in the streets and Adams telling Connor he understood what they should fight for. All loyalty broken quietly like a cracked window the moment he was declared traitor and sent to die. Everyone needing his aid and then silence, those open arms wanted to turn him around and snap his wrists in chains. No. It wasn't simple. But fact remains. He should have just known.

Aveline is looking at him. His thoughts are running across his face, and she patiently waits for him to arrive at a conclusion that he runs into time and time again.

"It is… difficult to explain."

She nods, twirling her hands in the grass. Connor's gaze drifts to them, mesmerized at how they're weaving in between her fingers. He remembers how he used to do that as a child.

"I'm sure it is complicated, but isn't that the point? How were you to foretell something even now you're having trouble describing?"

"If I had avoided making so many errors, perhaps I could have had the means to stop it. _My_ mistakes are clear."

He can hear how frustrated he sounds and he hates it. He doesn't want to show a bad temper to her again. But the brick wall is jumping through his throat.

"I won't deny your errors Connor. But that's all they were. And whatever you did could not have made that kind of impact."

She stops playing with the grass, folding her hands in her lap, looking embarrassed.

"Not that I'm saying you didn't make an impact, because you did. But you didn't push your people off their land."

He shakes his head, "What are you trying to say?"

Aveline straightens up, looking at the river in front of them. As if by order he looks to it as well, waiting.

"I'm trying to say that I won't accept you claiming that it was you and your mistakes that caused what happened. It was clearly due to the actions of other people who had terrible intentions." She pauses, her voice soft with the last part of her declaration.

"People more powerful than you."

Connor would let those words sink in to his mind if he could. If he had room. But there is none because he knows she's right and he's had that exact same understanding thrumming through his head. The part that spoke _sense_. In the end, none of what he did mattered in the long run. From the moment the cry for 'freedom' was shouted from a white man's mouth it was never going to work in his favor. He fought as hard as he could, and still does, but it was always going to be like that.

But to accept sense? To accept that there was a higher power who overruled him? It was hard. Painfully hard. At least there was a semblance of control in admitting a mistake. At least a mistake involved him doing something. Acting decisively even if it was completely wrong.

Aveline looks at him again and in turn he looks back to the grass. If he looks at her, it means he has to say something.

"I don't think I have convinced you."

He shakes his head. He doesn't know if that action denies or confirms what she said. He always felt like the truth had third kind of control that didn't care whether it was affronted or not.

"I have thought about it often." He finally admits.

"But not spoken about it." She replies.

"I guess… very few people know where I come from." Or they had an idea but were too busy or lazy to ask—or afraid, "So there is no one to speak to about this. I find it difficult to see it from another perspective."

Aveline hesitates, "Well… I don't know a lot about it either, but—" she suddenly pokes Connor in the arm. He jolts his head up at the response to look at her.

"—I know a bit about you. So there's my perspective."

She's smiling. Trying to comfort. He attempts to pick up that hopeful energy she's giving off, but it doesn't seem to work. She only knew a bit about him, because he barely knew bits of himself.

"Of course, I could widen it if I knew more about you." She adds, a jokey glint in her eye.

What could he tell her? He felt like there was very little to define him by these days. Heritage was gone, lineage gone, homeland gone, name—

"Connor is not my real name."

It comes out in a squabble, words fast and thick. It shouldn't sound like its some sort of dirty confession, but it does.

Aveline frowns a little, "Not your real name?"

"I mean-" Connor is his real name and he treasures it dearly, but still it's not _his_. Someone had it before him.

"It is not my _first_ name."

"How so?"

He fights the memories that want to fill him up, the struggle only shown in the form of a small sigh. "It is from the language of my people and so was not… suitable. For this work." He feels like it's important to stress that. That he was obliged to swap his name, not that he tossed it aside as soon as he could. His mother named him with great care, he knew. More so than ever, he knew what pain she went under and represented it with that name. He didn't want Aveline thinking that changing it was an easy thing for him to do.

"Can I ask?"

His train of thought is interrupted, "Ask about what?"

"About your first name. What is it?"

He stills at that. The question is on the tip of his tongue. _Why?_ Then he realises that they were talking about how Aveline wanted to know more about him, and this is pretty much all he had to offer.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton." He forces it out, the sounds stutter over his mouth and he's shocked at that. Has it been that long since he said it to himself?

Aveline is disconcerted, unaware of his panic.

"I didn't catch it."

He breathes in calmly before saying it again, grateful to himself that it comes out right the second time.

_"Ratonhnhaké:ton."_

Aveline thinks, and then to his surprise, tries to repeat it. He shakes his head at her attempt, making her frown.

"Well, say it slowly."

He does. And again she repeats it, to his wonderment. It's still not right, so he repeats it again for her. And then they go back and forth with his name, the sounds twirling in the air before dissolving in the rush of the river. He feels suddenly airy. Interested. He doesn't know why she wants to learn how to pronounce his name, but he cannot deny how much he likes hearing it. He never realized before now how much he missed it in his ear.

Six volleys later and she has it. Only a slight hitch before the last syllable.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton"

"There."

"At last!"

She looks so pleased with herself that he can't help but smile. He's a little bowled over by the exchange that has just taken place. He'd only known her a few weeks, and yet this is the first time he's had anyone even want to make the attempt to say his name, let alone learn it.

"So which name would you prefer then?"

Connor's eyebrows crease together, "I do not understand."

She gestures vaguely with her hands, "You know- a preference?" When he doesn't reply, she pauses a little before trying again.

"If you had a choice what would you like people to call you. Connor or Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

He's still not entirely sure what's she getting at. Why would he have a choice?

"People either know one name or the other. There has never been the need to make a choice."

"That's not true now, is it?"

He smirks at that, but is unsure how to reply. So Aveline knew both names, did it mean he had to tell her specifically which one he wanted? If so, then he couldn't do that. He doesn't know what would be right—

Aveline seems to read his mind. "If you'd want to be called Ratonhnhaké:ton rather than Connor, then it's fine with me."

He shrugs, figuring that if he can't make the decision, then she can.

"Use whichever name you like, but everyone else knows me as Connor."

"Okay."

They look at each other, grinning slightly. Another door opened in their companionship, Connor realizes. Everyday he feels his nerves getting less frayed the more time he spends with her. Something signals that the conversation is over, but it's amicable, natural. Aveline opens her book and starts to read. Connor thinks about going back to the manor. There is always something that needs tending to, but then there is something alluring about sitting there. And he wants to submit to it. The sun shining, the river resting soothing sounds in his ears, and the air light and breezy. He can bury himself in the easy silence he and Aveline have been able to create and perfect. He can, for all the word is worth, relax.

He sits and watches the world around him. Around them, and thinks summer will be over soon.


	8. Aveline: A Directory Inquiry

**General note**: I should have added this for the first chapter. As you might have already figured, this fic is going to tread into sensitive territory of all natures, more so in certain chapters. Some of it I do know about and have experience in, some of it I definitely don't. You have my word that I research everything I write on, however we all know that at times pure ignorance can reign supreme even when masked with good intentions. If at any point you see something offensive or inaccurate, please don't ever hesitate to call me out on it and set me right.

Additionally, if there is anything you want to talk to me about regarding some of the themes in this fic, please message me or ask for my email through my tumblr (teal0gic). I answer back and I don't bite :)

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Aveline: A Directory Inquiry

This was her idea, she must remember that. She approached him with this request, this bright idea. _This was her suggestion_ Aveline thinks to herself as she grits her teeth and stays stock still. It's pure pride that stops her body from shaking with the strain, the bow and arrow being kept as level as possible in her hands.

There is silence, only the light rustling of trees in the wind and birds beginning their songs for dusk as Aveline's tutor walks carefully around her, assessing. Aveline refrains from making a comment, or a polite recommendation that he hurry the hell up and tell her to release. It would be immature to do otherwise. Very immature. And hypocritical, considering she culls a sixteen year old's smart mouth nearly ten times a day.

Finally, the instructor returns to her right side, and gives his verdict as she looks ahead at the target, a rough cut wooden board shaped into a circle.

"You need to tighten your stance."

While Aveline knows that her knowledge on the exercise of archery is nothing compared to the person at her side, she's still quick to answer. Her voiced laced with overtiredness.

"I already tightened it."

"You need to tighten it more."

"Are you sure?"

He blinks, incredulous, "I am the one _teaching _you. Your shoulders are too loose."

He sounds so exasperated, Aveline's eyes flicker to her temporary teacher. Well now, she's never heard Connor talk like that before. Actually, no. That's a lie. She has heard it; she's just never been on the receiving end of it before. For the first time since she came to the Homestead, Aveline feels a flicker of sympathy for their ward. The temptation to snark back is _mighty_, and if Patience had to deal with two sets of mentoring on daily basis, Aveline can see just how she managed to wield a silver tongue in such a short space of time.

However, Aveline is an adult. So she doesn't snark, despite its attraction. With genuine effort, she feels within the core of herself and attempts to tighten muscles that are already heavily wound. Connor notices and nods appreciatively, at last giving the command to let go of the arrow.

It soars confidently and hits the board. Although it's heavily to the right and nestled within a bunch of its other westerly flown brothers. She gives an irritated sigh to Connor, who only gives a patient look in return. He implores her to try again, and she draws. With a nod, she releases. This time the arrow doesn't hit the board whatsoever, flying wildly into a clump of bushes nearby.

Her last thin thread of tolerance for her own learning curve snaps, and she growls.

"Merde. Why does it do that?"

"Drift to the right? You are distracted by something."

"Yeah, distracted by the fact that I can't hit the target."

"You have only been at this a few hours, and you've missed the target only five or six times." Connor offers evenly, unshakeable in the face of Aveline's self-inflicted venom. "Try again."

Aveline rounds silently on him and they have a three second stare off before she falters and draws again, waiting. All the while frustration froths away inside her. Really she's quite embarrassed by how quickly she's losing her temper. The first half an hour had been fine, but somehow it had descended into this sort of polite bickering. All her fault, of course. She should have realized it had been far too long since she'd felt the raw, disconcerting sense of learning something new.

He makes another circle, pushing her right elbow down a notch with a gentle touch of his hand before returning back to her side and signalling. This time the arrow hits the board, but still far too much to the right. As she relaxes, Aveline feels small tweaks of protest from her spine. She shakes her shoulders.

"This is so awkward."

"It's awkward for you because you have never done it." Connor offers, "I have been doing it since I was four."

"Four? Your mother was okay with that?"

She can't stop herself in time. It was meant in good humour, but there's no hiding how sentence ends awkwardly. Horrified, she wonders if she said the wrong thing. Again. Her thoughts go back to that party, where she trampled all over that sensitive topic of his family and it had taken days to heal that rift. Even though it was Connor who had bizarrely tried to apologise first. She wasn't sure what to make about that yet.

Connor doesn't look offended. Or if he is he hides it with a quirk of his lips.

"She was my first teacher."

The relief at avoiding a blunder and a repeat of before is gratifying, and she's quick to want to move on. Something tells her that while Connor seemingly is okay with the subject of his mother, she has dodged a bullet of some kind.

"Oh, well. Just checking that you've got the credentials, that's all."

Connor laughs quietly.

"You are the first to ask me for tuition."

"Really?"

"My Assassin's usually prefer guns." The shade of humour that had been on his face goes, and a sense of wistfulness overtakes him. Whatever he was thinking about, he got lost in it, and for a brief second Aveline sees it happen. Before she can ask what's wrong, Connor jerks his head and looks at her.

"Draw again."

She holds his look for a second, inquiring. But when he shakes his head she decides to let it go also. However, the moment lingers in her thoughts as she moves, and it's only when the arrow soars right past the board once more is she drawn more critically to her work. A string of swearwords fly from her mouth in French, unbeknownst to her making Connor flinch.

"I'm doing it wrong." She says finally, fully aware of how infantile she sounds. How much like Patience. How enlightening this was, learning sourly how difficult _learning_ actually could be. More so as an older person. More so as a 'master' Assassin.

Connor takes a step closer to her, lifting his left arm to imitate at the trajectory of her arrows.

"You move to the right at the moment you release."

He moves again, standing not directly between Aveline and the board, but off the centre line. Aveline frowns, confused, hands tightening on the bow. Connor stands firm, hands clasped in front of him.

"Try one last time, and I will remain here as you shoot."

Her mouth drops open at the suggestion, "You're going to stand _there?_" Granted, he was only blocking the barest fraction of the right side of the board, but it horrified her. Connor however, didn't even look fussed.

"You will not drift if I am in line, and it will position you correctly."

"What if I hit you?" She demands, a hint of panic in her voice carrying over as anger.

"You will not hit me." Connor replies assuredly, before taking a deep breath, "Even if you do, Patience still has a teacher left over."

"That is _not_ funny."

"Draw."

She realises that Connor isn't going to move so she concedes defeat. Given how quickly he could defend himself against a rogue dart, she figures he can dive out of the way should her shooting skills take a huge turn for the worse.

"Lower your elbow." He advises, one eye closed to focus on her aim. Aveline tries her darnedest to fight nerves, to not picture herself essentially shooting Connor. Explaining that to Patience would be a total nightmare.

"Now."

She lets go. There's isn't a shout of pain or the sound of Connor jumping out the way. Just the soft thud as the tip of the arrow sinks into the soft wood. A smile spreads on her face as she looks at it. It's much closer to the centre than ever, stuck in deep and steady. Connor walks over to it to pull the arrow, inspecting it.

"Better." He tells her, as he walks over to pull the arrow out. Aveline's own sense of achievement doesn't last long once she looks at how isolated that one arrow is in comparison to others clumped on one side.

"Right," She replies with sarcasm, "if you just stand on my right side all the time while I use a bow in battle I should be fine."

"Or you could always just hit the person next to your target." Connor offers, making her laugh. She puts the bow down and goes to board, pulling out the other arrows. She answers Connor's curious look.

"I think I've finally punished the shrubbery enough for one day."

They pack up in silence, enjoying the last tinges of warmth filtering through the trees. The last deal the sunset gives before it sinks below the hills. They're lucky it's nice at this hour. Within a fortnight, maybe sooner, the sense of dusk and the in between of day and night will be nearly non-existent, and the evenings will swoop in faster and colder than ever. Already the days themselves are taking on chilly edges. The wooden floors are starting to get frosty in the morning, the windows fogging up. Her walks with Connor take on a brisker edge in an attempt to keep the body warm.

Still Aveline hopes that the daylight will hold out a little bit longer for her. She hadn't told Connor why she wanted to learn how to use a bow and arrow, and why she asked that he'd teach after a full day's training. She didn't know where she'd begin to explain. She didn't really know how to explain it to herself. She couldn't always find the reasons as to why her nightmares would seemingly get worse. Become more intense. She suspected this time was because her mind had dropped guard. Training Patience was nowhere near as stressful as it used to be. Somewhat relaxing, after a while. Her imagination had been allowed to float, harnessing memories and adding tinges of fear and trauma.

It begun last week, these night terrors deciding to up a notch, and she had woken up almost every time shouting. It frightened her. Not the nightmares themselves, not anymore. But that maybe Connor and Patience would hear one night. She was certain that so far she was safe. No one had come rushing in or knocking on the door, and neither of them asked about the noise the next day. However, she couldn't rely being on a separate floor and the idea that Connor and Patience were sound sleepers to act as a comfort for long. Sooner or later, she would be caught out.

She didn't want that conversation. Not in a million years. But how to solve it? She decided to try out a tactic that had worked some times in the past. Despite the fact that the nightmares drained her energy, sucking her vitality dry and making her feel as listless as a ghost, the solution could sometimes be found in wearing herself out all the more. So her mind would concede defeat and have no means to haunt her in her sleep. She was just going to have to get even more exhausted in any way possible. Hopefully, this would do the trick. It certainly felt like it was working, the way her back flared in protest as she bent down to retrieve the arrows hidden in the bushes.

"Yeouch."

She stands up and calls over to Connor.

"I won't end up getting sore muscles like Patience, will I? Or I'll never hear the end of it."

Connor pauses in checking an arrow, hesitating.

"They might be a bit sore, but I think you will be fine. You have… been an Assassin longer."

Aveline laughs, catching on to what he tried to avoid saying.

"You mean I'm a toughened bat who's not getting any younger."

He's almost caught by the remark, but he smiles instead. He continues to examine arrows, and it gets Aveline's interest. She can't put her finger on it to start with, but after a few seconds she understands why Connor's posture looks off. He's standing rather awkwardly, his entire upper body taunt; almost like the mere simple action of standing causes him pain.

She looks away, disconcerted to be staring. But this hasn't been the first time. To start with Connor's movements didn't make that much of an impression on her mind, but the longer she spent time with them, they entered her observations more often. How he sat down with great care, planning every move. Or how if he would casually lean against surfaces when standing, only Aveline could tell it wasn't always so casual.

The easiest explanation would be he sustained an injury somewhere. Her guess is either his sides or his abdomen. But like her with her nightmares, she figured that Connor would be loath to talk about it. He had in fact become much more reserved as of late—more than usual. Letters for him were arriving daily, and while she wasn't so intrusive as to ask, it was obviously related to Assassin business in the cities.

She felt bad for Connor in a way. Training Patience had been enduring to start with, but with routine and practice, it had come with a sense of peacefulness. Trust for it to not last long, for the outside world to come banging on the door and shattering it. It only reminded her of her own duties that were waiting, old anxious thoughts ready to be resurfaced.

"Are you okay?"

She'd been staring into space, and Connor had detected it. Shaking her head, she sits on the floor and picks off mud and leaves from the arrows she'd rescued from the bushes. Without looking at Connor, she tries to deter her thoughts by asking aloud.

"How do you think Patience is doing?"

Connor is more than eager to answer, "Well. Really well. I was worried to begin with but she has come far in a short space of time."

Aveline grins to herself at his words. Connor's satisfaction can't be hidden, and neither can his pride.

"Is she ready for the big bad world yet?"

His reaction is interesting. A sense of apprehension triggers within him. Aveline has a hundred comparisons in her head, and the most apt ones relate to Connor being some sort of parent being asked about whether their young one could walk yet. She can tell that he doesn't feel the conviction he answers with.

"I do not think so. Perhaps a few more weeks."

"Don't go getting all defensive of her now. A couple of weeks on the streets of Boston will work wonders on her, and her temperament."

"That's what I'm afraid of." He reacts a fraction too quickly, betraying himself. He levels at Aveline's kind gaze, noticing that she's not making fun of him. "Still, it will be soon."

"Hmm."

"I know I am keeping you from other things." He adds, putting the arrows in the box.

Aveline is puzzled by that, not sure what he means. "Well, you're not really."

"The letter…?" He trails off, and Aveline's eyebrows raise. She didn't think he'd observed Patience giving her that letter at the party all those days ago.

"Oh! That was nothing serious." She dismisses it with a wave of a hand, "Someone is just happy to have me at a fixed address for once."

And that was true. The sense of dread she'd had at the sight of it initially had been unfounded. Nothing was wrong in New Orleans, nothing at all. There was the standard corruption and deprivation to be had, but that was it. Her Brotherhood was thriving, trying to make progress in her stead. And Gerald missed her. But after all these years, she didn't know what to do about that.

"In all honesty, Connor, I wouldn't have stayed if there was something pressing." She gets to her feet, handing him the arrows that she had picked clean.

"And I still call myself an Assassin." She adds, the thought popping up in her mind. She supposed now was as a good a time as any to ask about that. The query that had been lying dormant in her mind but never had enough importance to be formed into words.

"Why did you ask that, anyway? In your first letter to me about Patience?"

Connor seems perplexed by that question to start with, unsure about it's random nature.

"I just wanted to be sure that you had not moved on."

"To what? Madeline left me very little to move on to."

She didn't put it harshly, yet Aveline does speak it with feeling. Connor thankfully doesn't react to it, shrugging his shoulders and going over to put the arrows back in the box nearby.

"I remember you saying something about having a business. I thought you could have been focusing on that."

"No, the business is not mine."

He pauses in his work and looks up at her.

"What?"

"Well, it's complicated."

He stands up straight, twisting his fingers around thoughtfully.

"But it was your father's, yes?"

"Yes, but when he died, it didn't go on to me."

"Why? You were his daughter."

She can't get angry at the questioning, for Connor put it so simply. He genuinely had no idea. No reckoning of the laws down south. Aveline also respected how he had a private battle with himself before he spoke, figuring out how to present the words. It was another trait of his she had begun to admire all the more, the fact that he never wasted words. Picked everything with care. It went far beyond the fact that English was his second language, speaking as someone who possessed that herself.

"But my mother and father had a 'left hand marriage'."

"I have never heard of that."

"A kind of…" Ugly thing, are the first words in her mind, "…lesser marriage. It was secondary to the marriage of my father and Madeline. It's not as 'authentic', and in the eyes of the law I'm not entitled to his inheritance as a result. It's like being an illegitimate child."

Worse, actually. In her experience illegitimacy was something regarded as unfortunate. An accident perhaps. And in the other direction, a symbol of tragic and passionate love. What did she symbolize in the eyes of the stranger? Counterfeit, was the answer. It couldn't be _real_ love, for their marriage wasn't even a proper one. What was it then? A flight of fancy for her father, ornamented with an even fancier name.

The thought of it all often stung her, and high indignation would fight back. Her parents had been genuine. They had loved each other. She had her mother's diary, her words embellishing their relationship with a soft and tender vision. Aveline still remembered how often her father's eyes would flicker to the locket around her neck, knowing better than to ask for his child's most treasured possession but privately reminiscing from afar.

She'd go out into society. Go to balls and functions. And she'd realize just how much her own convictions would take her. Sometimes it would be enough. More often it wouldn't be.

"That is an actual _law?_"

She smiles wearily at Connor's own brand of offense. "I could have legally declared a small part of it at the time but I was… too busy. I got the house after Madeline's passing but that was only because I didn't give her the chance to cut me out of her will. I sold it anyway."

And that had been harder to take then losing the business in the first place. She'd lost her father's inheritance because of something she couldn't help being. Madeline gave her the house because she thought Aveline would accept her fate as a Templar. To have that judgment passed on Aveline when her own loyalties were so vulnerable took its toll more than the emptiness that filtered through its walls. It had stopped being her home the second Madeline declared it was.

"I had no idea it was such a complicated process. Or such a corrupt one."

She has to grin at that. "Never heard it described as corrupt."

"But it is. You were clearly cheated out of something you worked for. Does the business still exist?"

She gives a well-practiced imitation of an offhand shrug. "Gerald owns it and runs it in my absence. My father knew the laws and so passed it to him as a survival measure, so I would still have access to it."

She leaves out the bit where her father put those 'survival measures' in places because he thought she'd marry Gerald. Another thing she done to disappoint him that he would never know about.

"Gerald… he is your cohort—your second, yes? Also in the Brotherhood."

Aveline feels uncomfortable with the strange word Connor uses, but doesn't really know how to contradict him. "He's my second in command, yes. It's our first resource of funds for the Brotherhood"

"So your father was an Assassin also, as he knew to give it to Gerald?"

"No, he knew nothing about the Brotherhood. Gerald worked for my father and considered him my—a close friend of the family."

Aveline shrugs at his questioning look. There wasn't more to say on that, because she wouldn't say anymore on it. Connor surely wouldn't be

"He considers it mine, and every time there is a major decision to be had over it he attempts to contact me first."

Aveline turns away, not sure what else to say. It has only just occurred to her now what has happened. How the conversation had taken on this strange slant so suddenly. She'd only realised now how much she'd told him. Basically half of her life. But then Connor seemed genuinely interested.

"You are still not happy about it."

She freezes in the act of picking up her jacket that she had tossed on the floor earlier. She mulls over that statement, that _observation. _Connor was an outsider, the first in fact she had spoken to about this. And while it didn't have much of an origin, it strikes her that it had been refreshing. Aveline decides that keep that going, to keep her honesty with Connor despite the difficult territory she was wandering on.

"This sounds awful, but for me it's not enough." She speaks lightly, tiptoeing her thoughts with her tongue, "When all's said and done, it's not _mine_. It's not my name on the deeds and deals, and my signature has no authority whatsoever. It means nothing."

"Is there any way for you to get it back?"

"If I got married, maybe. But I'd rather gouge my eyeballs out first." Aveline looks over to Connor, seeing how her last comment made him uncomfortable. "You know Connor, we really shouldn't talk about such maudlin things _all_ the time."

He refuses to get bitten by her further humour, looking at her straight in the eye.

"If it upsets you, it upsets you."

They look at each other in the gloomy light, appraising each other. She doesn't have to force the grateful smile, and Connor drops his own awkwardness. It's in that moment that Aveline thinks about it all, her entire time spent here. A culmination of thoughts and feelings, conversations and observations, a complex tapestry of experiences weave together to form an abstract that has such a simplicity to it she's rarely known before.

Being at Homestead with Connor and Patience hadn't been that bad, not that bad at all.

Aveline strides over to pick up the box of arrows, nudging Connor in the arm and walking off.

"Come on, I'm hungry. And I want to enjoy as much good food as possible before I go back to 'fine' city dining."

They trek between the trees in an easy silence back to the house. Connor staring thoughtfully at the ground while Aveline keeps her eyes locked on the horizon, mentally treading in that rare world where at times, the heaviest thing one could carry would only be a box.

* * *

A/N: May I offer my sincere apologies about the long wait for such a short, filler-y chapter. I've been having some major confidence issues with my writing for a few months now and with this story being the most difficult and 'raw' for me to write, it got pushed to the side. However, I have kicked myself up the arse and made myself get on track with my planning, and I should be picking this up over October. Also the next chapter marks the beginning of the first central story arc, so there's that to look forward to!

Also massive, massive thanks to everyone who favourites/kudoses/bookmarks and reviews my work. I don't think I say this enough, but I appreciate every single one of you. You keep me going and make my day! :)


	9. Connor: Foot Down

**Connor: Foot Down**

It feels like his ears are ringing. He's knocked backwards and almost loses his footing, scarcely recovering before the assailant strikes again with the blunt end of a sword going for his chest. He awkwardly flicks his wrist to block the attack with his own sword, but the manoeuvre is painful and he grunts with the strain. It's been a long time since Connor had to fight an opponent this fast, and it agonisingly shows. He manages to push away the weapon, but there is no respite. It's then over in seconds. The offender swings again, this time for his sensitive side. Connor stops the swing enough to keep his scar from being hit, but his sword is vulnerable. There is an impossible fast twist of the arm, metal scraping together as it culminates in a sharp ringing noise and a clatter.

Connor's sword is sent sailing to the floor, but he can't look at as his eyes are fixed on a sword point towards his face, inches from his cheek. Following the line of metal the person holding it, he sees Aveline give him a small but satisfied smile. She drops her position.

"Alright, I think that's enough."

He's quick to nod, and ignores her as she moves off, stretching. He stays rooted to the spot, looking at his sword on the floor and unconsciously rubbing at his sore wrist. Faint humiliation nips at him, followed by irritation. It's not the fact that he lost. He knew Aveline was better than him, and he wouldn't have asked for a practice fight if otherwise. No, it's how he lost. The fight they just had barely lasted five minutes. Slightly quicker than the last bout, and the one before, yet _still_. Connor had never truly realised how much he let his sword skills slip until now, and it shocked him.

"You okay?"

At Aveline's voice, Connor blinks, back out of the self-deprecating criticism and into the real world, which is currently located in the basement of the Homestead manor. She picks his sword up in a fluid motion, handing it to him point down. She cocks her head, concerned at his exasperated expression. He tries to reset his face into something more amicable as he takes the sword from her.

"Yes." He shrugs, hoping it will hide whatever he's feeling, "It is clear I needed this."

Aveline still doesn't look convinced, but Connor is not sure what else to say. He knows distinctly how uncomfortable he's being, how he's been since they started this session early this morning. If he knew how, he would explain. Why he feels so on edge, so difficult. It's nothing to do with her. But it's how the weight of the sword seems heavier in his hand than it should be. The way his scar is stinging more fiercely than usual even though he's avoided getting it hit. His concentration is just not there, because his head keeps filling with cannon fire and smoke and echoes of his own frustrated screaming. He can't really describe how bad this is for him, because it would mean starting with the fact that the last time he fought an opponent with a sword, it was his own father.

And while Aveline might have been joking, Connor took that remark she made the over about the subjects of their conversations seriously.

"As long as you're sure." She replies, voice uncertain, "I didn't go easy on you."

That was a relief. Now that it's over, Connor can think more clearly. He analyses in his mind Aveline's moves, repeating what he witnessed. She moved with such a swiftness he'd rarely seen before. Every counter-action was as if they were planned and studied weeks in advance. Connor had often prided himself on being able to know his enemy quickly, yet even after their sixth and final bout, he still had very little idea on how to defend himself against her.

"You are so fast…" He says more to himself, but Aveline takes in the flattery with a rare and proud smile on her face.

"My opponents are usually bigger than me, so I've always had to prioritise speed."

That made a lot of sense. Suddenly Connor gets a sudden flashback to the night she broke into the manor, and how she tackled him so quickly he barely had time to realise he'd crashed to the floor. How strange the memory felt at that moment. It had only been but a few months ago at the most, but in essence the distance seemed longer. More remote. So much had changed since that rainy summer evening. Now autumn was firmly here, biting at their bare skin and leaving trails of cold on the windows.

"Thank you for agreeing to do this." He says to her to distract himself from the strange sense of nostalgia that wants to attack him, making his chest tight.

"No problem. Besides, I have to repay you for those archery lessons somehow."

A thud is heard upstairs from the direction of the kitchen, and both look upwards at the ceiling, thinking the same thing.

"I believe our young lady is ready for the day." Aveline remarks, taking Connor's weapon and walking over to the benches that store the swords. As he waits for her, Connor's mind is soon pulled back into distraction, not quite over the sting of defeat and the associations it's unexpectedly brought with it. However, as he watches Aveline, his thoughts turn to her. He thinks about her comment on the archery lessons. They'd undergone six of them now, since starting last week. She made a scary amount of progress, the instinct to drift while shooting eradicating more and more with every shot.

He had to admit that there was something relatively relaxing in teaching Aveline. And eye opening. He never noticed just how much there was to observe about her. The flat-out essence of determination she applied to everything, where she would shoot and shoot until darkness threatened to make the targets invisible. The way she spoke about her life was also enlightening. How she handled the hardship that society in particular had dolled out to her- how could she be denied a business she'd poured herself into because of who she was stumped him, even though when he thought about it, the restrictions were there for obvious reasons he could relate to himself.

But with noticing the good things about her came the fact that he was also beginning to notice less than seemly features, which had led to an unfortunate discovery. It was last week where he recalled first discerning the dark smudges under her eyes, and while he wasn't sure if he could remember them always being there, he knew that they had at least deepened, and becoming more pronounced with every passing day.

It was soon after that when he heard it one ridiculously early morning. The shouting. He'd bolted out of his room and was halfway down the stairs when he heard muttering in French, causing him to freeze. It was Aveline, and listening to her voice made him realise that she'd done the shouting. He clicked instantaneously as to what had happened, having been a veteran of the same experience for years. She'd had a nightmare.

He hovered on the stairs for a few minutes, listening in to her talking to herself although everything in his being told him not to. He couldn't catch everything, but there was no mistaking the nature of it, and whom she was talking about. Agaté, her former mentor.

Since that night, Connor had been thinking on it. He wanted to bring up Aveline's nightmare with her; mainly because he hated harbouring the guilt of knowing he'd listened in on something that was obviously meant to be private. He wanted to come clean, almost, on his accidental eavesdropping. An overwhelming notion of instinct told him otherwise to the idea. He knew enough about her now to know that she wouldn't take it well. He had traces of knowledge about Agaté from the letters she'd sent him all those years ago, and he wasn't a subject to be taken lightly, much less discussed in relation to a rather vulnerable situation.

However, what he did figure out was that the archery lesson were somehow linked to Aveline's continuously worsening sleep deprivation. He knew the two were connected somehow, he just didn't know how, or why. But if he wouldn't speak to Aveline about the nightmare, he wouldn't go probing her about why she'd taken an interest in the bow and arrow. She always seemed happier after the lessons anyway-

"Hey," Aveline's fingers click in front of his face, making him recoil, "you with me?"

"Sorry."

He flushes at being caught out again in being lost in thought. Having finished packing away, Aveline heads up the steps and he follows her. Patience looks suspiciously at them as they both enter the kitchen, paused in the act of biting into an apple.

"Problem, Patience?" Aveline inquires.

Patience's eyes narrow for a second, as if she's about to ask something. "No."

Connor decides to ignore the weird exchange and sets to making some sort of breakfast, tuning out the conversation between Aveline and Patience. His scar is still smarting, and he has to avoid frowning as he stretches and bends for things. He's about to reach for the kettle when he sees a figure walk past the window.

"Warren?" He catches Aveline and Patience's attention, and they all turn to look at Warren as he enters the kitchen moments later, smiling at Patience.

"Morning ladies."

Patience bares her teeth into a silly grin, but is already walking over to Connor.

"A young lad was wandering around here, looking for you. He had this." Warren hands Connor letter, embossed with that all-too familiar seal, "Didn't stick around though, said he had to get back to New York."

At that detail, Connor feels a sickness pooling at the bottom of his stomach. He keeps calm however in the face of Warren's cheerfulness. Tries not to act as if this isn't a letter he's waited all week for and dreaded about.

"Did he give a name?" he asks evenly.

"No, but said he worked for someone named Carter I think?"

Connor nods, although he feels even worse. He opens the letter as if he's expecting for the words to jump off the page and attack him. Everyone else in the room is oblivious to it, and Warren turns back to Patience, pinching her on the arm.

"And how's you fairing up, madam? Hunter's been asking for you."

Aveline pipes up, "We've been busy."

"I could tell. Ellen's chickens look happier."

Connor can't hear them or their laughter, the words of the letter filling him up and leaving an icy imprint. With every sentence, it gets worse, the details taking on a graphic image in his mind. His hands tighten on the fragile paper so hard, it begins to crumple and shake. It went wrong. Horribly wrong.

"Connor?"

He looks at Aveline, startled at her voice. He realises that Patience and Warren are looking at him too, concerned as she is. Connor is too thunderstruck to reply, to try and cover up the horror he's feeling because of what he's just discovered. Thankfully, Warren makes to leave, speaking to no one in particular.

"Ah, I'll be round later, okay?"

Connor doesn't even say goodbye, eyes darting back to the letter and re-reading the words, checking if there isn't something else he's missed. As soon as Warren is out the door, Patience gets to her feet.

"What's going on?"

"I knew I should not have asked to have it retrieved." Connor mutters to himself as he checks the final paragraph, "I _knew_ it."

He realises he's still being stared at. However, he's lost for words. Not sure what to say. Panic is still gripping at him, making his heart hammer fast, throat going dry.

"I… I lost a recruit."

Both their faces drop in response, Aveline being the quickest to recover.

"When?"

"Three days ago. There was a problem with the mission."

"The mission?"

It's then he recollects that he didn't tell either of them about it. His hands tighten on the paper.

"One I set in Boston, it was to retrieve something. But a recruit was killed."

Repeating the news seems worse, somehow. Without warning Connor's mind starts to visualise what the letter told him what happened. His body goes rigid, his heart so loud in his own ears it feels as if his pulse is threatening to burst through his wrists. Stilted silence distracts him from the grim images, and he meets Aveline's concerned eyes.

"I may have to go there."

"Now?"

"No, in a few days perhaps."

He needs to think. Needs to plan. He runs a hand through his hair as he glances at the letter once more. He could go to the study and write an immediate reply to Dobby. He makes to leave the kitchen, hoping that Aveline will understand that training is going to have to be delayed. It's then that Patience speaks.

"When are we leaving?"

Connor stops, turning to look at her, not sure that he understood what she just said. Patience looks at him as if he's grown an extra head, raising her eyebrows.

"I am coming, right?"

His answer is instinctive and hard, as quick as a backhand or flick of the wrist.

"Absolutely not."

Patience reacts as if she'd been physically stung, leaning forward with arms crossed.

"What?"

"You are not coming with me."

"Why?"

"Because I said-" Connor breaks off, catching himself in time. However, he doesn't care to conceal how icy he sounds. "Because it is far too risky for you."

"What the hell?" Her voice gets louder, "Far too _risky?_" She strides over to where Connor is standing, getting into his face.

"What's this all been for then?"

Connor would be intimidated, as Patience intends, but his ire is far too potent. Anger stemming from what's happened in Boston, the fact that it's happened- that he let it happen. When he answers back he matches her volume.

"This involves something very dangerous and-"

"Bollocks. I can't handle being an Assassin, is that it?"

He shakes his head.

"Patience, you're just not ready."

"Connor-" Aveline's soft interjection is out of place in the middle of this heated argument, and both participants ignore it.

"I was right." Patience hits back, voice cracking, "You don't think I'm good enough. You've never thought I was good enough."

Connor doesn't miss the sudden vulnerability and it throws him off guard. He bites back what he was going to say, tries to rein in his irritation. He shouldn't be shouting at her. Although he can't understand why she's acting like this. Why she thinks him wanting to keep her safe equals the accusations that are coming out her mouth.

"That is not true."

"It is! My charm was what you wanted, you don't need me."

It's too late. Patience's rage has gone beyond recalling it back. She isn't willing to listen to Connor. She backs away from him, heading out of the kitchen and refusing to look ay anyone.

"You drag me out here, and it's all been for nothing, hasn't it? Because I was right, I'm not good enough. You keep on about how you think I can go far and then you won't even let me out the front door!"

She throws off the hand Aveline tries to put on her shoulder.

"Patience-"

"No. Sod this."

No more can be said, only Patience footsteps and a wall shattering slam as she throws the front door shut behind her.


	10. Aveline: Trompe L'œil

Aveline: Trompe L'œil

The sound of the front door clattering against its frame after Patience runs out of the manor makes her flinch. The atmosphere in the room thickens, that which is leaded with awkwardness. Aveline is not wholly sure what just happened, but already she's considering it. Following Patience. Her body inches a fraction forward, thinking on where she might have gone.

Her idea gets put on hold as Connor takes a step. She holds her hand up to stop him, deciding there and then that the situation must be diffused from at least one end first before she does anything.

"She needs to calm down," she tells him, trying to not sound so uncomfortable, pressing her words out, "and the news about Boston has upset you. Wait it out-"

"She cannot come with me to Boston, she is not ready."

Connor's face is pale, although his eyes are wide and glittering in an anger that hasn't spent itself. It's a direct contrast with voice, icy and resolved. Aveline raises an eyebrow at him, keeping herself calm as she pointedly takes a deep and slow breath. The implication is too big to ignore, and Connor realises that he's been rude. He drops the challenging stare, his entire being sags as he hangs his head and stares at the floor. Aveline points to the letter still in his hand, which is getting steadily more fragile by the second under his tight grip.

"Want to tell me what's going on?"

Connor struggles with the words, frowning repeatedly until he makes a short frustrated sound.

"This—" He walks over to toss the letter on the kitchen table, "I was uneasy about the mission. But I decided to ignore my instinct. What I was after was too valuable to risk it getting lost to us."

Her eyes flit to the paper and she spots fluid and clear handwriting, but heavily slanted. Written in a violent hurry. Connor's name at the top is printed in bold capitals, demanding attention. The man himself roughly sits at the table, propping his elbows on it and balling his hands raised aloft into tight fists, looking at nothing. He's still tightly wound like a spring, and Aveline figures that it's best to keep him talking.

"What were you after?"

He unclenches his fists and lays his hands flat on the wood, still not looking at her— or anything for that matter.

"A copy of a journal. It was owned by the Templar William Johnson, but I did not realise this until after…" he blinks, squinting as if he's physically searching for words around him, "…Long after he died. Dobby and Stephane managed to track it so I gave them the permission to retrieve it."

It's like he's talking to himself, and not in the room at all. Aveline frowns with concern, discerning how he still hasn't relaxed, sitting hunched over the table.

"I had to have it recovered," he elaborates, "the information it contained would have led to a type of threat I do not want to encounter again."

"Reasonable thinking." Aveline interjects.

He snaps out of his strange trance, regarding her evenly, "A recruit is dead because of it."

"We can't prepare for everything," she responds quickly, "and you know that. Sometimes you… fail."

She knows how false she sounds, and how much she resonates with how Connor is feeling. Of course he's angry with himself, batting away anything that contradicts his self-blame. She knows so intimately how failure as an Assassin—a mentor—is not tolerated. It cannot be tolerated. How many times has she balled her hands into fists and cursed herself for mistakes?

"How was your recruit killed?" She asks more to snap herself out of her train of thought, rather than the fact that Connor's gone back to being silent and staring at the unknown. His voice is still utterly flat when he answers.

"She was hit with a poison. Dobby does not know who did it, and how the recruit acted was unlike Dobby had ever seen before."

Aveline's heart seems to skip a beat, mind jumping several miles ahead. The word poison springs a type of agitation, sending her hurling back years before. A poison that incited supremely erratic behaviour— she stops herself. There was no way that there could have been a connection between what she experienced with her own poisoning, all that time ago, and what was going on here. The coincidence would be unprecedented. She draws away from her thoughts, back to Connor.

"She would not stop attacking everyone, until…"

"Until?" She prompts for him.

"She was cut down by a stranger, who then ran off. Dobby reports six innocents were killed by the recruit."

The devastation is clear even in Connor's neutral tone. Six innocents, and killed by an Assassin no less. Aveline wishes that there was something she could say, but anything of the constructive kind was nowhere to be found. Connor was not for empty empathy, and neither was she.

"I wanted get the journal myself." He says tersely.

"Why didn't you?"

Connor heaves a long sigh, interlocking his jumpy hands together and unlocking them, "It was personal, and I did not trust myself. But I should have gone."

"You couldn't have known this was going to happen." She tries to reassure him, feeling a little repetitive, still too insincere for herself personally. "Templars don't normally have poison in direct combat, they prefer to use it more artfully."

She would know best after all. But reminiscing about those kinds of things was neither appropriate nor helpful at this moment. Connor keeps mauling and mashing his fingers together, and Aveline is struck with an obligation to make him stop. Her own intrusive anxiousness making her want to halt Connor's own. She recalls that there is still someone else she needs to sort out as well.

Without a word she sits down on the table opposite Connor, and he seems to realise what he's doing, noticing his own distracting fidgeting. Sheepishly, he lets his hands loosely lie on the table again.

"I might need to go and find out properly what happened, and find those responsible." He says, "Sooner, rather than later, as Dobby has gone back to New York."

Aveline opts to ask her question now, difficult as it may be. Although she would rather run away from this conversation, given how she is going to plunge it into utterly different waters. More turbulent ones. Still, she didn't run away. Patience did that enough for her, and then some.

"So," She speaks delicately, elongating every sound, in her mind sounding even more ridiculous, "why won't you let Patience come with you?"

As she expects, Connor's expressions go through a cycle: Surprise and confusion, a brief flicker of annoyance. He grows stern, but Aveline was ready for that as well,

"She-"

"I said a couple of days ago that you should take her to the cities," Aveline cuts him off, "in order for her to really hone in her skills."

He inhales sharply, and Aveline notices how betrayed he looks. This is the first time in their partnership that they've been divided over Patience, and Aveline realises she likes it a lot less than she thought she would. She keeps on talking, trying to avoid the hurt shade in his eye.

"Look, Connor, you're her mentor-"

"We both are-"

"I'm not going to be around soon." She doesn't mean to make that sound so final, but it does. And it's sitting comfortably opposite Connor in a kitchen that feels too familiar now that is making her realise it. The stack of letters from Gerald and the ever-changing seasons were also reminders. Ones she'd been trying to ignore.

Connor still looks injured, and Aveline elects to soften her tone. She doesn't want to lecture him. But at the same time, she knows there is a duty she has to carry out. Her identity as a mentor is pounding away at her, telling her to set this straight. Bring things back to normal. Or at least a normality that fitted what she had known all her life.

"I understand that you'd worry about her. Hell, I'm going to worry about her long after I'm done here. But," she shrugs, "you trained her so she could join the Brotherhood, and she can't do that if she stays here."

And if we stay here, she wants to add. Because she has to admit she's not only thinking about Patience. They've spent the entire summer on the Homestead, and if she could, Aveline could have told herself that there never was another world beyond it. Was she right to suspect that like her, Connor had gotten comfortable here? She could hardly blame him, and that was with knowing only a percentage of his story. She recognises at this moment that this address might be for the both of them, that they both needed to realise the semblance of serenity could only be fleeting.

Connor no longer looks so affronted. The lines on his face softening. His eyes stay fixed on his hands, but they no longer look so far away. She's noticed that his shoulders have dropped, no longer in danger of touching his ears.

"I am not saying she should get involved with whatever is happening in Boston." Aveline adds, "I agree with you that she's not ready to deal with it, and this sounds nasty. But spending time in the city would be valuable for her training."

Finally Connor glances back at her.

"But if I pursue this," he taps at the letter, "how can I…?"

"You clearly have excellent Assassin's there, leave her with them. She won't run into trouble if she has two or three of your finest watching her back… well, at least not as much trouble."

Connor's mouth twitches ever so slightly, and Aveline relishes silently in victory. Relieved to have at last broken the tense stalemate. She smiles shrewdly, a sly edge creeping into her voice.

"Besides, how old were you when Achilles first let you roam the streets?"

The mild look on his face immediately twists into a spectacular scowl.

"That is not the point." He declares, petulant and making her grin obscenely.

"Oh, I think that's _exactly_ the point."

Connor looks on the verge of saying something, but he cannot think of a suitable retort. Aveline feigns innocence with a perfect gesture of ignorance. He tries to stare her down coldly, but it doesn't meet his eyes. Unable to hold it, he looks out of the window, steeply and suddenly contemplative.

"I should not have spoken to her like that." He murmurs after a moment.

Aveline raises her eyebrows, "Let's not forget that her negotiation skills need work."

"I should talk to her. Apologise."

Aveline gets to her feet, speaking matter-of-factly. In her mind knowing that one half of the feud had been made to see sense, it wouldn't take long for the other to come round.

"Let her blow off some steam first. You won't be able to continue training her with more broken fingers."

Again she gets what is not quite a smile, but it's not a glare either. He agrees that they should wait, even if it does end up being all day. He goes outside, politely but firmly refusing Aveline's offer of help as he decides to attend to various chores, leaving her to sit and read on the porch of the manor. It was a task that quickly got abandoned after she hit a desire to merely ponder as the landscape of the Homestead was spread out in front of her.

As the time passed, Aveline could deliberate more clearly about the morning's rather explosive interlude. Aside from the discomfort and unease the situation had caused, looking back, it had been ardently intriguing to see Connor act like he did. Never had she heard him speak so taciturnly before, having only properly known the collected and more unassuming sides to him. She didn't quite know what to make of it, only she had noticed it. And couldn't stop thinking about it.

Nor after a while could she stop watching Connor in her relaxed state of total lazy procrastination. As the day wore on, and the hours slipped by with a meek chill in the air, Connor's manner changed. It was subtle at first. His gaze would flicker to different directions, unintentionally scouting out and sighing when he saw no figure in the distance. It then deteriorated, with him looking at the position of the sun in the sky frequently, and then actively scanning out the surroundings. Every time he did so, his actions were sharper, quicker. He then started to handle his chores more roughly, slamming things down, tossing aside others.

Aveline watched with a faint amusement. The pep talk she'd given him in the kitchen had worn off in its positive glow, and even though she was no mind reader, anyone could tell that Connor was annoyed with himself. And fretting. Albeit angry fretting, but fretting all the same.

After another hour, where it was approaching mid-afternoon, Aveline couldn't let him suffer in silence anymore. He was sorting through an assortment of daggers in a box, sitting crossed legged a few meters away from her, when she called out to him.

"Yes?" as he turned to face her gruffly.

"You need to stop beating yourself up over it. It was a little spat, nothing more."

He cottons on straightaway to what she's talking about, taking on the manner of a scolded child. "I dislike losing my temper."

She laughs lightly, "If this morning was the extent of you losing your temper, you don't have a lot to worry about." She is treated to another unwanted flashback at her words, unwittingly remembering Agate's fierce rages.

"Besides," she adds to distract herself, "when she flounces back, you can apologise. She'll make you grovel though."

Connor huffs, going back to his work.

"Fine."

She has to fight laughter, biting her lip. How ironically and hilariously does he remind her right now of the ward they've spent the last couple of months trying to teach serenity too. It was funny that while he was accepting of other people's blunders, when it came to his own he acted as if he had committed an unholy crime, submitting himself to a kind of sardonic purgatory. It's rather charming to observe, if she permitted herself to say as such.

He still has a sour look on his face minutes later when he gets to his feet and she beams at him in an attempt to humour him. He doesn't know what to do at that.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Connor checks the sun again, face creasing in concern. "It has been a while," he stresses, "maybe we should—"

"_Connor!_"

The desperate shout makes them both jump. Aveline instantly gets up off the porch, book banging to the floor. Someone can be seen sprinting towards the manor, but it's not Patience. The way they're running, limbs flailing, just suggests total panic. Aveline feels a hollow sensation developing somewhere near the pit of her stomach. As the person gets closer, she can see it's Terry, still shouting even as he approaches.

"Connor!"

"What is it?" Connor makes up the remaining distance with a few strides. Clutching at Connor's arm, Terry speaks in a hurried mess, heaving in great gasps in-between words.

"Warren says Hunter went too far into the forest— and came across a pack— Patience heard Hunter and drove them off— and told him to run but she— wasn't with him when we found him on the outskirts."

Connor grabs at Terry, "Which route?", meaning the pathways into the forest.

"The East"

Aveline rushes up to the man, hit with a sickeningly cold realisation as her mind alights on what Terry has said.

"Wait, a pack? You mean _wolves?_"

Connor turns to her directly, immediacy in his voice, however she thinks the same thing as he asks it.

"Was she-?"

"I don't think she was armed—merde!"

They don't waste time, not even to say anything to a shocked Terry as Connor picks up his bow nearby and Aveline briefly checks that her machete is still strapped to her side. They sprint towards the forest in the direction Terry pointed out, flitting past Warren and Hunter, the latter screaming his head off about Patience. The forest is still thick, swallowing them even though it dapples and blinds with orange and yellow leaves.

Even as she runs, keeping in step with Connor, Aveline focuses and pinpoints on the environment around them. A trace of gold licks at the ground and the nearby trunks—Patience's trace, seen only through a certain lens, sketching a pathway that they both race after.

As they come to a clearing, the gold peppers out, flecking and then disappearing completely. Connor and Aveline stop at the same time, frantically combing the area around them. Connor, in Aveline's eye cloaked in blue, places an arrow ready to shoot as his gaze flits about, Aveline does the same, barely registering that she's never noticed until now that Connor has that same ability as her—the _sight_.

She can't think about it now. All she can think about is Patience, her name in Aveline's mind like a frantic alarm, flashing that same glimmer she saw on the ground. Her drive is compelling her to move, screaming that she must act and protect_. _But neither of them can find the trail—

They both look to the west, finding the markings at the exact same time.

"She was just—"

Aveline's sentence is cut off by a loud scream, catching the breath in her throat.

"Patience!"

They sprint in the direction of the noise, and they see her. She is standing in a combat stance, fists raised, but Aveline can see a bloody cut on her cheek. Two large grey wolves face off against her, snarling and snapping, judging when to make their strike. The one on the left decides to go for it, jumping for the girl and Patience throws up her arms in a desperate attempt to defend herself against the oncoming attack.

Connor gets to Patience first, throwing his bow and arrow down before sliding to crouch in front of her, completely shielding her. Patience yelps in surprise as his arm comes up and the wolf is hit with it instead, digging its teeth deep into the leather bracer of Connor's hidden blade. While the bite is not deep, and doesn't penetrate the tough old leather, Connor's wrist is twisting awkwardly with the strain. Aveline can see that he can't trip the blade and force it into the wolf's jugular.

Aveline, wary of how the other wolf is now preparing to target her, knows she has seconds to act. The closest thing to her is the bow with the arrow and she makes for it. She strains against the awkwardness of a weapon that's a lot bigger and stronger than what she's used to, but she focuses on everything she knows. She breathes in, aims, and fires within the space of four seconds. Despite her scant lessons the combination of those teachings and blessed luck means that the arrow hits deeply into the side of the wolf attempting to rip Connor's arm off.

She sees Connor push off the beast as it howls in pain, before she hears loud snarling behind her. In the time she took to attack, the second wolf has gone for her, jumping for her throat. By instinct she pivots and moves back a few feet to nearby a big tree, mirroring Connor's earlier move and throwing up her own arm. She protects the more vital parts of her, but claws come into contact with her bicep, tearing through her shirt and cutting deep as they scratch and drag.

The pain is astonishing, making her cry out, but through the shock of it she reacts. She hurls the wolf off her with her free hand, knowing once more she has but seconds to move. The wolf makes another charge, leaping for her as she grabs her machete. Placing its paws on her chest, the wolf knocks her down. As her machete makes contact with a random spot on the side of the wolf's neck, she is slammed backwards and against the tree. A strangled yelp is heard and warm blood gushes over her hands as she cracks her head against a thick trunk. And then the world goes dark.


	11. Connor: Bagging the Brunt

A/N: My friend Wordy deserves a dedication for this fic because over the past couple of weeks she has kept me topped up with encouragement and Connorline trash despite my turmoil. Check out her artwork on tumblr the-wordless-signature -It has a sleepy Connor! ;)

Connor: Bagging the Brunt.

The devastating screech of the wolf as the arrow hits its neck goes right through him. Chilling. But Connor holds on to his focus, unflinching in his actions when the animal rounds on him again, staggering towards him and lashing out in its agony. He doesn't waste the unexpected opportunity and punches his arm forward, launching the hidden blade at precisely the right moment. It hits the wolf acutely in the neck with a burst of warm and sticky blood that spills over his fingers and runs don't his arms, and he grimaces.

He hears a sharp cry from somewhere ahead of him, but he is caught off guard by the how the wolf he's just killed attempts to collapse on him in it's last moments. The heavy body colliding with his vulnerable side and almost knocking him over. He manages to push it away at the same time he sees Aveline being overtaken by a similar mass of grey fur near a large tree.

He sprints over to her with Patience at his heels, already to take on the second predator. But as his hands go for the wolf's neck he sees the machete deeply embedded in it, everything coated in sticky red and the animal is limp. Connor puts both his arms under the beast's belly and lifts, straining slightly, revealing a still Aveline slumped against the tree, similarly coated in blood from her neck upwards.

He's numb at this point. Forces himself not to panic at how she's covered in blood. He lies her flat on the ground and checks her pulse and breathing. Huffing a sigh of relief when he finds that both are regular and while there's a gash on her arm that's staining her shirt, he can't see any wounds on her neck. It's the wolf's blood she's mostly covered in, not her own.

The world seems to right itself. Connor is aware of everything around him once more, including Patience, who has stood at his side. Connor lifts his head to look at her, and sees that she appears frozen stiff, staring at Aveline. As gently as he can, Connor touches her wrist. Patience starts violently, totally spooked, fear swallowing every part of her. Connor curses himself for not thinking to look over her sooner.

"Are you alright?"

Patience barely suppresses a shiver as she drops to her knees next to him, voice thin and high.

"I… is she—Aveline—"

"She is not too badly hurt." Connor attempts to soothe, feeling a flicker of regret as Patience starts to shake a little more visibly. Her fingertips brushing Aveline's injured arm. Something is seriously wrong, despite Connor's assuredness. Colour has drained from Patience's face, and the girl is hunched over as if she wants to be sick. Connor's heart starts to thump hard again, adrenaline kicking back up.

"Are you sure?" Patience whispers, not looking at Connor, still clutching at Aveline.

Connor doesn't know how to reply. In that moment he thinks actions would be better than words, and he starts to check over Aveline again. She's still breathing evenly. The wound she has doesn't need immediate attention. Connor starts to run his fingers between Aveline's braids, looking for cuts or the tell-tale bump on her head. He can't find anything, right until he touches a particular spot and Aveline jerks, stirring a little.

"We will need Doctor White…" Connor murmurs to himself, trying to figure out just how on earth he was going to go about fetching him. Patience overhears him and springs to her feet, making Connor flinch.

"I'll go get him, I'll be quick."

"What? Patience _no_—"

Patience sprints off, running out of Connor's eye line, disappearing between the trees. And unarmed _still._

"Patience—Patience _wait!_"

It's no use. She vanishes completely and Connor knows he cannot follow. His spine curves with frustration, and he doesn't supress the irritated growl working between his teeth. The buzz that was racking through his body during the fight and making him focus is now wearing off. His scar is flaring painfully, bothering frazzled nerves all the more. He grits his teeth to deal with the soreness and tries not to panic. Not to worry about Patience, although he knows that mere minutes ago she could have been killed.

"Connor?"

Aveline's voice snaps him out of it, and he looks down to see her rapidly blinking at him. Quickly he takes her hands away from Aveline's head and backs away from her, giving her room to breathe.

"Yes. Do you remember what happened?"

She tries to focus, narrowing her eyes, yet for all her efforts she looks incredibly dazed and tense. Connor recognises that look from countless times before, from when any of his recruits had got themselves knocked out in training sessions. Aveline opens and closes her mouth several times before putting her right hand to the back of her head and squeezing her eyes shut.

"I…" A tight frown overtakes her face as she tries to speak. "…no. No, I don't remember."

Connor waits, letting Aveline get a sense of herself, although he eyes the wound on her arm again and sees that the red stain has spread. That needs to be seen to, and soon.

She opens her eyes again, "Weren't we waiting for Patience to show up and—" Aveline then blanches, sitting up so quickly that Connor cringes. She pays no heed, however, going wide-eyed with panic. "Oh hell Connor, Patience_—_"

"She is safe. She has gone back to the Homestead for help."

"Unarmed?"

Connor closes his eyes briefly, "I could not stop her."

Aveline groans, putting a hand over her eyes as she scowls, "That girl—" She shifts suddenly, placing one palm flat on the ground and another against the tree. Connor doesn't get it what she's trying to do until Aveline start's bending her legs, feet scrabbling about, unsteady. For a moment he's too stunned to speak, merely watches her try to get up and walk about.

"Wait-"

"We have to make sure she hasn't run into more trouble." Aveline snaps back, hand slipping on the bark.

"Yes, but Aveline—"

There's a quiet thump and a hiss as Aveline loses what little footing she has and falls back into an awkward sitting position, gripping at her bloody arm. She glares at Connor, daring him to say something. For a moment, he considers it, but instead he kneels next to her, untying his sash. Before she can protest, he quickly presses it upper arm to stem anymore bleeding, trying to ignore her hard stare as he takes her free hand to hold it in place.

"Hold on." He mumbles to her once he's finished, going over to the nearest dead wolf to pull out the machete, and then to the other one to pull out the arrow. He takes a moment to admire the shot despite himself, until he hears Aveline's shallow breathing behind him. He turns to see her slowly rocking back and forth, fumbling as she tries to tie the sash.

She looks considerably paler, going very still as Connor silently ties the sash for her. He realises then that she's trying not to retch.

"Are you—"

"I am _fine_." She croaks out, not looking at him. "Let's go."

Aveline thrusts her uninjured arm and Connor reluctantly helps her to her feet. She sways dangerously for a second, and Connor reacts on instinct to stop her from buckling. His scar is flaring too much to pick her up properly, but he's able to wrap her sore arm around the back of his shoulders, keeping her in place by holding her wrist while his other arm rests gently at her side.

He can feel the waves of incredulousness hitting him as he moves, and Aveline breathes in sharply through her nose as she shakes a little, wincing.

"What are you doing?"

He just blinks, "You cannot walk back unaided in this state."

He's starting to feel a little anxious again. He wonders if he should have asked permission before supporting her, but he checks himself. They're both mentors—professionals—there's nothing strange about assisting her. She can't walk alone. His scar is beginning to lessen the stinging, and he takes a step forward. Begrudgingly, Aveline follows, conceding defeat and putting more weight on the back of his shoulders.

"I didn't mean to say that you should _carry_ me there." She grumbles as they carefully pick their way between the trees. Both of them keep their ears pricked for the sounds of more trouble, or Patience.

"I'm not." He replies simply, wondering what the problem is.

"Connor don't _fuss_-"

"This is not 'fuss-ing'," he's not sure entirely what the term means but he has a good indication about it, "you were attacked by a wolf."

Aveline lapses into silence, and Connor tries to pick up the pace. However, the further they go through the forest, the wobblier does Aveline become. Connor feels more and more weight on his shoulders, and then he has to actively hold her by the waist to stop her from pitching forward every time they come across a raised tree root or a lump in the uneven ground.

"Aveline?" He asks after a few minutes, concerned that she hasn't said anything. Thankfully they're almost at the Homestead, and the trees are beginning to thin out, but Connor's noticed how her breathing has become shallower, her missteps becoming more frequent. He must have knocked her head harder than he thought.

Aveline speaks through gritted teeth, "It's nothing." She corrects herself, knowing that there's not point in lying. "My head is _pounding_."

"Just a few more steps." He tries to reassure her. Before he can really start to worry, he hears a voice from the edge of the forest.

"Connor? Miss Grandpre?"

"Over here, Doctor White." Connor calls back, feeling guilty for shouting as Aveline hisses again, squeezing her eyes shut. Lyle finds them after a few moments flapping his hands and Connor feels Aveline flinch at the sight of him.

"Oh thank goodness."

"Doctor you did not have to come up—"

Doctor White tosses his head, tutting at the both of them, "I couldn't get a full sentence out of your girl other than someone was hurt by a wolf. It's not too serious?"

Before Connor can open his mouth, Aveline gets there first. "It's just a scratch, Doctor."

White raises an eyebrow, "Yes, I've heard that one before. From what I can see here that arm will need some stitches. Come along."

Aveline and Connor follow as diligently as they can back to Doctor White's house. As he leads them into a consulting room, Aveline unhooks herself from Connor and unsteadily collapses in the patient's chair. Connor thinks better than to say something, and leans against the wall opposite, eyeing her carefully.

"Where is Patience?" Aveline asks as she shifts heavily in her chair, voicing Connor's silent worry as she rubs her forehead. Doctor White messes around with bottles and salves for a few moments at his desk, clicking his tongue before he answers.

"The young lady is with Diane and Warren, she's fine, if not a little flustered."

"And Hunter?"

"Also fine, currently having a little tantrum with his mother but he had a big shock in encountering the wolves. It was lucky your girl was nearby."

Connor and Aveline catch glances, both expressing something very different than Doctor White's more upbeat observation. Connor certainly knows that he doesn't think the whole situation very lucky. The fear that been lining his stomach since he heard Patience's cry has been thickening ever since, even now, when the situation was over and everyone was relatively safe. He can feel a tremor threatening to poke through his fingers, and he folds his arms.

Doctor White sets up some catgut, a needle, scissors, and bottle of alcohol and bandages on a small table next to Aveline. Even though he unties the sash around her arm and snips away the sleeve of her shirt with the utmost care, the fabric is stuck to her skin with dried blood and he has to peel it off. To her merit, Aveline barely makes a sound, looking determinedly at the floor.

"Hm, that's quite the cut." Doctor White pokes at it gently with his fingers before talking to Connor, "I've noticed the wolves are getting closer to the Homestead. Not to mention that they're more aggressive these days."

Connor shakes his head, "It is probably because of the new settlers seven miles west. They are getting disturbed more frequently and are being overhunted."

It was something he couldn't prevent, and everyone here knew it. But White shrugs his shoulders as he starts to clean Aveline's wound. "We should speak to them again."

"There is no point. They do what they like, and besides..."

Connor trails off as he hears the sound of frantic footsteps. White and Aveline also lift their heads as Patience bursts into the room, cheeks a flash of burning pink as she grips at the door frame.

"Aveline!"

Her presence is like a shock, a firework, a firing gun- call it what you like. The persistent dregs of fear and apprehension that had been growing a forest inside Connor ignited at the sight of Patience standing by the door, the cut on her cheek a thin but angry red line. It reiterates in his mind, that the wolves could have torn her to pieces. That he and Aveline could have been too late in getting to her. But it was more than that—the fact that the whole reason she ran off in the first place was because of him. That he upset her so much she left without a weapon and her senses. All of this, Patience's near miss and Aveline's injury, is essentially his fault.

However, those thoughts, thrown into a cauldron mixed with his self-inflicted anger and fear, transform into something miles apart from what he wants to do. The words out of his mouth are harsh, stern, a tough rebuke to his ward when really he wants to apologise. He can't stop himself.

And to his surprise, neither can Aveline, who sits up straight in her chair and fires at Patience with an energy not there previously.

"Patience you know that you _never_ go into the forest without a weapon-"

"What were you _thinking_ going out unarmed beyond the Homestead-"

_"__Wow!" _Patience reacts fiercely against Connor and Aveline's unsuspecting twin attack of reprimands, rapidly cutting them off. Throwing her hands up in a sarcastic surrender Patience backs away through the doorway, screwing her face up in anger as she continues to shout.

"_Sorry_ Mum! _Sorry_ Dad!"

An ugly silence governs as Connor finds he has nothing to say, shocked by his own outburst as well as Aveline's. They both find that they're looking at each other as if they can't believe it. Doctor White has paused in his act of threading the needle, eyes flicking between the two mentor's with quiet caution.

There's a sniff, Connor looks at Patience, who is now almost cowering by the door, hands still held up. The wrath on her face has melted into a picture of pure upset. Connor can see tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

His reflex is to reach out. Fix it. Stop making it all wrong, because that's what he's doing. He takes a step.

"Patience-"

The door slams with an obscenely loud bang as Patience bolts once more without a word to either of her mentors. Connor sucks in a sharp sigh, more aggravated with himself than ever. Aveline tries to get out of her chair but Doctor White holds her fast, the forgotten spectator in the room. When he speaks, he breaks the tense spell, trying to steady the situation.

"Diane will look after her." He clears his throat unnecessarily as he goes back to his work, "I think we're all a little bothered at the moment, some space might be good."

Connor runs a hand through his hair, but he knows the man is right. Especially when all he can think about is how he's only capable of upsetting Patience further. Aveline has returned her gaze to the floor, only her free arm is now taunt as a spring branch on the arm rest, fist curled tight.

Connor cannot think of a single thing to do, but to lean back against the wall and watch Doctor White sow up Aveline's wound with an expert precision. Thoughts tumbling over and over like a sick waterfall, unyielding in the torrent. Relentless in the guilt.

"Madame—"

"A-Aveline, please." The sound of Aveline's shaky voice brings Connor back into the room. Doctor White has finished with her arm, but he is still kneeling at her side, regarding her with concern. Connor can see why. More colour has drained from Aveline, and she is gripping at her chair.

"As you wish, Aveline. Are you well? You are looking incredibly pale."

She gives a non-committal hum, but Doctor White presses on.

"Did you sustain any other injuries?"

Connor can't hold his tongue anymore, "She cracked her head and got knocked out."

He gets a quick flicker of betrayal from Aveline, but then Doctor White is glowering at the both of them, clicking his tongue loudly as he stands up and pointing fingers.

"Why on earth didn't you tell me that before? Good lord, Aveline, you're as bad as him."

Carefully Doctor White checks Aveline's head, similarly to what Connor did back in the forest. Like before, he finds the same tender bit at the back of her skull, and Aveline twitches, a quiet swearword slipping out.

"Yep, there's a sore spot. You're having a right day of it today Aveline."

He pokes about at her head, oblivious to her continued swearwords, for another five minutes or so before he declares to her that there's nothing else he can do, apart from order immediate bed rest. With Connor's help, Aveline is walked back to the manor. No one speaks the whole way, although Connor can feel the thrashing waves of embarrassment rolling off his fellow Assassin.

The moment he opens the door Connor can tell that Patience isn't in the house. But there's nothing he can do about that, frustratingly, Doctor White is right. Connor needs to wait before he attempts to patch things up with his student. Doctor White settles Aveline in her room whilst Connor sits at the kitchen table and traces the grooves in the wood with his thumbnail, looking out through the window and listening intently. Eagle vision flickering on and off, looking for a slim figure of gold. He can't help himself, even though he knows better.

He sees Doctor White out when the man is done. The man imparts some words of advice to him before he leaves.

"If Aveline hasn't shown improvement by tomorrow Connor, don't hesitate to call on me. Serious blows to the head are not to be taken lightly, and who knows what wolves roam about in these days."

Connor nods, distracted, looking out at the Homestead.

"Also make sure that she does actually rest tomorrow. If she's anything like you then that needs to be emphasised."

The sly tone grips Connor attention fully, and he looks at the elder man, nodding again, albeit a bit more obediently. "I understand, Doctor."

White then holds his breath for a moment, suspending the decision to continue with his counsel, putting an almost fatherly hand on Connor's shoulder.

"Also, while it is obviously none of my business, I suggest you try and talk to your girl tonight. You know, once she has calmed down."

The hand on Connor's shoulder feels more like a death knell than a comfort. A total symbol of condemnation and his jaw tightens in response. His mind has been scattered to the winds, torn about by the tension and drama of the day. Problems in Boston and bears are things he can just about handle. Angry teenagers whom he can't seem to reach out to are another thing entirely.

"Right Doctor… of course."


	12. Aveline: DeterminationCircumstance

**Aveline: Determination before Circumstance**

There's no nightmare. No dream. Just a dull, heavy dark. She's not able to determine what rouses her first. The ugly, horrible chill overtaking her body, or the splitting headache beating her raw. In either sense, waking up is a violent assault on her consciousness, and her eyes squint and strain as she breathes sharp and fast, trying to manage the pain. Aveline feels as if she's been resurrected from an early grave, and she can't remember who she is, where she is, what she's doing—only everything hurts and this room is _freezing._

She shudders, thinking of nothing but to pull the sheets around her tighter as she curls up in an effort to protect herself from the cold. But it's no good. The chill seems to be coming from within her, almost like it's located deep within her chest. As she tries to roll over, there's an epicenter of pain emitting from her arm, and she snarls. She remembers then. Remembers yesterday. The argument in the kitchen. And then the wolves. Her embarrassing slip up. The blood, sickening and sticky, splashing on to her neck, the last thing she could feel before everything went scarily dim.

Aveline's hand flies to her neck now, terrified that somehow the blood is still there, drying and flaking. But it's not. Her neck is wet, but from sweat. As she prods her swollen throat she realizes that her skin is warm. Far too warm. And the sheets are damp from her having a fever in the night. That makes no sense. She shouldn't be ill. She shivers again as spikes of cold tingle up and down her spine, refusing to ease. Her head filled with shot. Stoney and unforgiving, weighed down by her hair, which is damp and heavy too, soaking through her scarf.

Aveline tries to calm down. It's not that bad, she says to herself. Pushing the sheets off her body without mercy despite the frost that's trying to grow roots around her lungs. Aveline will allow five minutes. Just five more minutes of lying in this bed and then she will move. To get up and get dressed because this is ridiculous. The cheerful sunlight, pouring through the window all bright and obnoxious, is telling her that it's already mid-afternoon. So much time has been wasted already—why didn't Connor come and knock if she missed their early morning meet-up?

As she lies there, shaking and feeling sore, Aveline endures another onslaught of memories from yesterday. She squeezes her eyes shut as she thinks about Patience. How horribly upset she'd been. And then Aveline had only gone and made it _worse_, shouting at her in White's consulting room. Aveline remembers thinking it over that night, before she fell into an uneasy sleep. How she could have slapped herself as she went over all the details, ears listening out as she heard Patience go straight to her room at one point, and then the house going eerily quiet. She wished she could have gotten out of bed and knocked on Patience's door. She wouldn't know what to say or do, only Aveline knew that what she should have done at least. After the fight with the wolves, the girl had needed reassurance, not a scolding. Patience had been scared, shaken up. And after Aveline and Connor had shouted at her, Patience did the only thing Patience knew what to do—run away. Ending up angrier and a threefold more upset.

Aveline's only justification for her words was her own fear, but it truly wasn't enough. Wasn't an excuse. Yes, the girl had nearly met her own death, scaring the seven hells out of Aveline. But it wasn't intentional. She was protecting Hunter. She wouldn't have been near the forest if she hadn't argued with Connor. The argument itself would not have happened if Aveline had known to deflate it properly—

Everything was always a chain in motion. One cause ricocheting off another. Aveline knew that better than anyone. The trail of blame… shouting, blaming, scolding… those methods didn't work. Never worked. It was not how one should mentor—again, something Aveline knew better than anyone.

Aveline swings her legs out of bed, gritting her teeth against another crashing wave of freezing cold that flows over her spine, going up to her neck. Sitting up is a process that only causes more pain for her head and she looks around the room desperately. There, on a table on the other side of the room, a jug of water left by White before he left. He told her to drink water regularly, but between the weighty slumber and anxiously listening out for Patience, Aveline was guilty of forgetting to follow his instructions. Now her head, as well as her throat, is giving her hell to pay.

Dizziness attacks her with a scary flash of black when she stands, but she wills it to pass, going stock still. If she moves, she'll likely trip over something. There are a lot of books everywhere, scattered on the floor. Her clothes are everywhere as well. She'd been distracted of late, resulting in a room that was beyond even her standard yet manageable untidiness. She'd been embarrassed to let the doctor in to assist her yesterday because of it.

She can't put things away now though; she needs to get dressed. Find Patience, apologize. Find Connor, thank him for his assistance and also apologize (because god, that had been awkward, coming round to feeling his fingers in her hair was _not_ something she'd been expecting). Fix this mess out. Ignore her throbbing arm and power through.

As carefully as she tries to pick her way through the mess, she still stubs her toe on a book here, a shirt there. And it's getting colder all the while. Getting dressed has suddenly become one of the most difficult and tiresome tasks she's ever undertaken. She sighs and winces and hisses as she tries to get out of the oversized shirt she went to bed in- one of Connor's, stealthily borrowed on behalf of Doctor White. She's mortified to see it's damp with sweat and the sleeve is stained with dried blood. She'll have to wash it before she thinks about craftily returning it.

She doesn't even look at her arm. If she pokes at it, it'll only sting and smart more. The bandage is stiff and tight and she doesn't want to fight with it, roughly pulling her own shirt over her puffy shoulder. Aveline decides to ditch the jacket today, at the mercy of being frozen to the core. Her hair merely tumbling down her back. She must look like utter hell, because mercy knows she still _feels _it.

Water, Aveline. Have some water. She stumbles over to the table, where there is a large eagle statue, some of her letters, two chairs, and that glorious pitcher of water. It's probably cold and it will chill her even more, but she can barely breathe through her thick throat, and her head won't shut up with it's echoing noise thundering right through her skull.

A nasty jolt attacks her, the room jerking violently. Aveline breathes quickly, too quickly, taken aback. Another swish of black, of feeling the floor slant sideways. She has to go still again, huffing and swearing, muttering to herself.

"Ce qui la baise?"

Something is very, very wrong. She should sit down. Wait for it to pass. Yet, somehow that doesn't happen. She goes to the table, reaches for the chair to pull towards her. However, the chair decides to play traitor. Be completely out of her reach so that Aveline loses her balance. Her feet slide out from under her legs, almost—that's what it feels like, that or as she takes a step to try and steady herself, the floor seems to not want to be there anymore and rapidly disappears beneath her.

It's pure luck that she avoids smacking her head on the chair, however her hands go flying, colliding with the jug and sending it sailing to the floor and docking with an abhorrent shattering. Pottery being flung about everywhere as she lands heavily on the shards. Disorientated as she is, Aveline doesn't realize that she lands on her injured arm until several moments later. Where she on the floor, amidst shards and water. Blinking at how everything is turned on it's head when an unbearable spike of torture sings from her elbow to her shoulder. She cries out despite herself, vision blurring again as she tries to roll on her back and take stock of what's happened.

The pain is too distracting. Her arm is now very wet. It must be bleeding. So is her hand. Wait, that's not right. Not to mention she just aches all over. Head like the central pressure point, pumping the distress throughout all of her. Instinctively her body arches. Curls up. Trying to fight off the world and herself. Aveline is too busy trying to concentrate that she doesn't hear the rush of footsteps. Of hearing her bedroom slam open. It's the perplexed voice that makes her try and sit up, blinking in confusion and mortification at the man in the doorway, staring at her, completely not comprehending the situation in any way shape or form.

"What was—what are you _doing?_"


	13. Connor: Ohtera

A/N: Hey guys, a little warning for discussion of emotional and physical abuse. Take care x

* * *

Connor: Ohtera

He knows he's let too many hours slip past him already, the murky indigo dawn having long surrendered to the midmorning sky. He doesn't know what to do about it, marooned as he feels in the kitchen, trying to occupy his static but bothered mind with numbingly boring tasks. It wasn't working. Instead, he keeps going through the day before, over and over. Accusations and faults twist and spin with the recollections, picking out his mistakes. He's not even aware of what he was writing down in the ledger in front of him anymore. The self-derision and internal annoyance continue to eat away at his concentration, the consumption lost on his tired face but evident in how his fingers keep squeezing at his pen.

In the end, the pen ends up being slammed on to the table with a sigh and a long look at a spot on the wall. Connor just doesn't know what to do about any of his problems, and they want to engulf him all at once and swallow him whole: his rattled nerves, the mission in Boston, the entire disastrous meltdown that was yesterday. Any idea that meekly attempted to raise its head and offer some form of resolve to any of his problems either seemed ridiculous or worse. Quickly squashed down as he jumped to the worst conclusions, adding more to the racing unease that seeped outwards and poisoned his entire body, making him jumpy and alert to every sound and flutter of touch.

He digs a heavily bitten thumbnail into one of the old grooves in the kitchen table out of habit. Small slithers of wood peel off a little at a time, building under his thumb, grainy and soft. He wonders if he should go for a walk. But then he doesn't trust his feet. That they won't lead him back up the stairs and outside the door on the left side, where he'll raise his fist to knock at the door like he did earlier this morning.

Only he didn't knock back then. He couldn't, with his hand faltering in the air and his brain not offering a single thing that he could say to Patience. Not even when he had made it back to the kitchen could he think of anything, not even now, hours later on and where he hadn't moved since, would a sentence form itself. Every now and again his eyes would flicker up to the ceiling, where there would be a muffled bang every now and then. Patience was always noisy in the morning, stamping around the house like it offended her, but today her displaced thumps felt like an omen. Displaced, like she was closer than usual. Connor wondered when he was going to hear that cascade of feet down the stairs- if he was going to hear it. When Patience finally came back to the house yesterday, just before dusk, she went straight up to her room without a word, fully ignoring Connor's half-hearted call for dinner afterwards. He was sure that she hadn't left it since.

He hears another thump on the periphery of his hearing, again, sounding closer than upstairs. Irritation grips at him, almost in-sync with the noise, heavy and ugly. What was doing, wasting all of this time in the kitchen, hiding away, instead of going to Patience and apologising? More hot guilt licks at him as he thinks about Aveline, and what she would say. He had to apologise to her too, once she was recovered. He must have made for an appalling mentor yesterday, and if it weren't for his temper, the incident with the wolves wouldn't have happened like it did. Aveline wouldn't have been hurt.

Connor stands up, trying to will a sense of purpose that is stronger than that he currently possesses. He should check on Aveline too, to see if she needed anything. Believe that the words currently missing in his mind will find themselves once he starts to move, to start acting like the Assassin he should be. He stretches a little, trying to push out the tension. To not feel overwhelmed with a mentor injured, a pupil not talking to him, and issues in Boston. It's almost like he's back to being a teenager again, swallowed up by everything rushing at him. Before he can second guess himself once more, he walks out of the kitchen. He'll go to Patience first. He remembers that she probably hasn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, and he needs to try and coax her out of her room for that reason, if nothing else. He just has to trust in himself to say the right things this time around, although his heart is hammering and he feels like he'd rather go for a ten mile run instead.

Connor's feet barely clear three steps and he hears a smash. Without thinking, he turns on the Sight and directs it ahead of him, seeing past the stairs and into the only bedroom on the ground floor. He jumps down the stairs at a vision of the dark green figure lying on the floor, running to the room. He doesn't think to knock, pushing the door open to Achilles' old room with half a question already spoken.

It dies off when he sees what's in front of him, going still in confusion, palms pressed against the doorway. The figure on the floor was Aveline, curled up by the table nearby. He clocks one thing at a time, how she clutched at her arm, the shards of pottery, the puddle of water on the floor, blood smeared across her hands. How she hadn't noticed him yet, grimacing hard and struggling to shift. Just like it has been all morning, Connor's brain is on the out, not helping him put together what had just happened. The question slips foolishly out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

"What are you doing?"

Aveline sits up at the sound of his voice, blearily regarding him, shoulders tight and her face set in pain. Seconds pass in an equally agonising awkwardness as Connor waits for her to speak, instinct trying to make him appear nonchalant, like he hasn't just found her collapsed on the floor.

"I'm fine," she mumbles, breaking the stalemate and looking away, "I mean I am a bit unwell."

Now she's mentioned illness, Connor can see it. Her flushed face and the sweat beading on her forehead tellingly say up close that Aveline is actually a little bit more than just 'unwell'. Connor finds it in him to move, carefully kicking shards of pottery out of the way, knowing that he can't leave her there on the floor. He offers his hand, "That is obvious."

They catch glances, Aveline's eyes glowing bright with fever. She grumbles a little, miffed at his sarcasm, but clutches at his wrist and lets him pull her to her feet. She immediately overbalances the second she's upright, wobbling forward, earning a caution from Connor to be steady and hissing in return. Connor waits, hoping that she'll regain her balance, but as his hand tentatively hovers over her uninjured arm, she still continues to sway alarmingly. Hardly aware that he's even next to her as she shivers hard and raises a wet hand to her clammy forehead and stares at the floor.

Connor feels his unease spike, and he tenses uncomfortably in the silence. He doesn't really know what to do. Again, the awkwardness of it all prompts him to speak.

"Aveline?"

She lifts her head a fraction, not shifting her gaze, words stuttering out of her mouth "Mon Dieu, la chamber est filature."

"How badly?"

"Very bad-" she suddenly turns to him, bright eyes widening further, making her look almost comical, "you understand French?"

The genuine horror on her face confuses him horribly, and he confirms it slowly. Considering that Aveline must have more pressing worries right now, he's not sure why she thinks it's a bad thing. His French was a consequence of conflicts and the people he worked with, where long afternoons were spent reading several dry volumes in French (Listening to Lafayette and Laurens ranting on about Charles Lee gave him a better grasp of the more colourful vocabulary). He doesn't get the chance to explain any of that, however, as Aveline starts to lose her balance again, shivering. Connor focuses on her bad arm, seeing how a steady spread of red has started to saturate an already damp shirt.

"Please let me look at that." He asks quietly, gesturing at her arm. Aveline looks at him for a moment as if she'll refuse, suspiciously curling her lip. But then she slumps over to her bed with a skittish huff, voice leaden in a half-hearted attempt to tease as she pats the bed.

"If you insist."

Connor dithers for a split second, despite the permission, ducking out of the room to shout for Patience, picking up what's left of the clean bandages and supplies from doctor white on the table. As he sorts out dampening a cloth, he keeps one on an Aveline that's almost sagging over herself, furiously kneading her forehead.

"Connor? Is she…?"

Patience appears, gripping at the doorframe with pale knuckles, looking slightly ill herself with her gaze sliding back and forth between him and Aveline. She looks like she's only just rolled out of bed. Connor nods in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.

"Could you get Doctor White for me?"

The question gets Aveline's attention, but Patience is already out the room and racing through the hallway. She settles to glare at Connor instead, recoiling back slightly as he approaches her, hands full with cloths and bandages.

"I don't need the doctor." She states, still petulant as Connor turns to the side to face her and rolls up her bloodied sleeve. It takes effort not offer another sardonic reply, noticing that her hand is bleeding also. As his fingers lightly touch at her skin, a heat seems to radiate off of it, a bizarre thing to feel, given that she's shivering harder than before.

"You are burning up."

She tightens her jaw, angry but unable to argue against what he says. As Connor works at undoing the knots of the bloody bandage on her arm, her shoulders dip a little more. She sounds defeated when she mutters to herself, fixed on staring at the smashed jug nearby.

"It was just a wolf, for god's sake."

"Yes, but they happen to kill people."

Connor doesn't have to look away from what he's doing to know Aveline is glowering at him again. He keeps his concentration on trying to peel away the bandage, her arm stiff and awkward. Aveline doesn't relent easily, however.

"I do believe you're fussing, Connor."

He keeps his tone wondrously even, "No, I am not."

"You know, I once fought a bear in a full-length dress, and I was-"

She gets cut off by her own sharp intake of breath, stoppering in her throat. Connor feels terrible for being the cause, as the bandage, stuck to her skin with dried blood and scabbing skin, is stubborn in coming off. He continues to tug at it as gently as he can, uncovering the cut underneath, which is inflamed and still bleeding. He can't really tell, but it seems that she's pulled some stitches.

He can hear Aveline trying to breathe measuredly through her nose as he cleans up the mess around her arm, shifting uncomfortably. For some unknown reason, that grates on his nerves a little as he works. In fact, coming to the realisation that Aveline had collapsed whilst fully dressed and probably heading for the door bothered him a lot. Surely she must have known she was too unwell to attempt such a thing as soon as she woke up? There was no need to push herself so hard.

"Why did you even get out of bed today?"

He flits his eyes away from his work to look at her, and he sees that her face is turning red for a different reason, her free hand curling up, "Because we do still have a pupil to teach, no matter how much she hates us."

Connor can feel the involuntary twitch in his face, the answer a terrible sting. Aveline briefly turns away, before taking an intense interest in watching Connor clean up her arm.

"Besides, I didn't realise the illness was so bad."

Connor can't stop himself from raising his eyebrows, "Really?"

"Yes, really." Aveline irritably shrugs her shoulders, sounding haughty, "I'm not about to let some silly fever leave me bed ridden."

"But it will, if you are unwell."

"If I had stayed in bed every time I felt unwell, the Templars would own New Orleans."

"If you try to get out of bed every time you shouldn't, you will end up on the floor."

The tartness between them rises with each word. Aveline scoffs at Connor's rebuke, eyes boring into him, "I only slipped."

Connor's silence acts as the perfect reply to that statement, and her cheeks redden that little bit more. He pauses in what he's doing to check the wound again, and this time, Aveline shifts away from him, making out to him as if she's about to stand up.

"Are you finished yet?"

He frowns at her, suddenly very serious, "Aveline, you cannot move around in this state."

"I'd like to see you try and keep me here." She fires back, an unusual smile on her face despite the pale pallor and red cheeks, "What would you do, tie me to the bed?"

Connor just scowls, "I would not give me any ideas-"

"Ah, Miss Grandpre?"

Connor gets to his feet at Doctor White's voice. The man stands boldly the doorway holding his lapels with his head bent, peering over the tops of his glasses at the two of them. Without warning, an uncomfortable spike of sensation feels like it's blooming across Connor's shoulder blades, thrumming in that familiar vein of embarrassment. Although Connor can't quite put a finger on knowing why he felt that way. He just knew his back muscles were tensing in a way they usually did when he'd been caught out in combat.

Aveline hasn't spoken, and the silence born since doctor white appeared is beginning to stretch.

"That was fast, doctor." Connor offers, spotting Patience hovering behind the man, deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone. Doctor White walks into the room cheerfully enough at Connor's observation, apparently unaware of any sense of tense atmosphere.

"I was already on my way over. I had a feeling those injuries were going to cause some more problems."

Doctor White sits himself down on the bed next to his patient, and sets to work, placing a hand on Aveline's forehead. "Still under the weather, Aveline?"

Connor watches her carefully, seeing how she sits as still as she can, despite her shivering. He knows she can't argue with Doctor White, a near stranger with a lot of authority. She gives a tight tilt of the head to his question, "It looks that way."

Doctor White takes a look at her arm, giving a satisfied hum to Connor on how he's cleaned the wound. He then gets back up.

"Right," he starts, all with the manner of a man with a plan as he assesses Aveline, "well, I've got Diana with me. We'll re-stitch that cut, get your temper down, and then get you comfortable again."

Before anyone can speak, he goes over to Patience, arms folded, peering over his glasses again. "And don't you have a strict routine to keep, young lady?"

Patience fidgets on being put on the spot, looking at the floor.

"If Aveline needs help..."

"No, no." Aveline pipes up, startling everyone. She smiles at her, although it's not without effort, "Go to your training with Connor, Patience, I'll be here when you're finished."

Patience shuffles away without arguing, not saying a word and heading for the front door. Connor takes that to mean he should leave as well, but Aveline calls for him, beckoning him over. He hesitates, thinking that maybe she's changed her mind, that she'll still try and argue with him to get up although Doctor White is here. Instead, he gets a surprise when he goes over to her and her fingers gently curl over his forearm.

"Please talk to her," she speaks softly, "we've upset her."

Out of the corner of his eye, Connor can see Doctor White raising an eyebrow, unnecessarily clearing his throat. He tries to ignore an odd prickling sensation, akin to what he felt earlier, as he searches Aveline's face. Her expression might look glassy, hazed over with illness, but there's no hiding the imploring look in her eyes, the way she clamps her teeth together. Suddenly, her frustrating determination to get out of bed makes sense.

He tries to sound more confident than he feels, "I will try."

He is let go with a hopeful grin, and quickly backs out of the room before Doctor White can make a comment. He continues to keep his head down as Diana sings good morning to him from the corridor, and it's not until he's outside that he can feel he can breathe properly, that the tension in his back eases. That is, right until he sees Patience leaning against the wall, arms folded.

He asks her what she'd like to do, and just gets a shrug and a scoff as a reply. Knowing that Diana is probably watching them from the kitchen window, Connor tries to let that roll off him. He decides on something simple, telling Patience to fetch a sword whilst he collects a training doll from around the back of the house. Carrying the battered thing on his shoulder, Patience trailing behind, Connor leads out to a spot that is significantly further away from the house than usual. He figures that if there's going to be some shouting again, then the Homesteaders deserved some distance.

As they walk, Connor anticipates. Waits for the moment where Patience is going to break that gruff upholding of stubborn silence. But even as he sets up the doll in a space hidden by bushes, she says nothing. Not even a word when he instructs her to practice some standard moves. She just does as she's told. It disconcerts him, it's not what he expected. He thought there would be anger, accusations, a following on of yesterday before she stormed out of the kitchen. Instead, there are only the muffled thumps of the dull sword hitting the doll and a discomfort threading between the two of them that is thick enough to choke.

Connor's mind races for about five minutes, and even as he stands still and acts like he is observing Patience, he can feel his fingers squeezing together as he holds them together, nails digging into the backs of his hands. He needs to say something. Start the conversation. Although he knows he has to be careful, to word his apology appropriately. He forces himself back into the present, actually watching Patience so he can find the right moment to interrupt.

He immediately frowns. Carefully walking around as Patience swings, he sees that something is off about her work. Her posture is wrong, the shoulders curving downwards, neck bent forward. As she parries lamely, it looks as if she is twice as heavy, rather than as the skinny sixteen-year-old she is. He sees how her hits land, rough and loose, and he catches the sight of her hands.

"Patience, stop." Connor forgets everything he was telling himself about finding the right moment before, fixated as he is on what he's just noticed. "Sit down."

Patience pauses, looking at her mentor with a blank expression, and then stows her sword away. Or she attempts to, fingers fumbling and slipping. Connor immediately goes to take it from her, now completely unable to look away from her hands. They're raw and split at the knuckles, fingers swollen at the joints. The efforts of bad punching, fists driven blind for hours by anger and pain.

Connor doesn't think he could dislike himself any more than he has done today, but he sees Patience, sees how she's battered herself like this, and how sullen and near-defeated she looks, and it takes a new level. Not to mention, this downtrodden Patience just plain scares him. A far cry away from the burst of energy he's used to now, the inquisitive girl who lit up the room and kept you on your toes. Connor has to get that girl back, and fast.

Patience sits herself down with a heavy sigh, her lips pulling into a tight line. But as Connor sits next to her, ready to launch into his apology, Patience cuts across him, quiet and doleful, pulling her knees up to her chest.

"It's my fault. What happened… and with Aveline…"

"No, it is not." Connor takes a breath, willing the forcefulness out of his voice. "The fault is mine."

His words do only a little to ease his own tension. He knew he was wrong the moment she ran out of the kitchen, before he lost control and shouted at her in White's consulting room. But for some reason, he cannot elaborate on it. He can't explain why he was so upset. Perhaps simplicity was the best way to go about it, working through his own thoughts as he speaks.

"I was too harsh to you, yesterday, I should have listened to you, not shouted at you. And as for what happened to Aveline…"

Patience lifts her head up from her knees to look at Connor directly, a distinct nervousness flickering across her face.

"It was an accident. You being unarmed didn't matter."

Patience doesn't accept that explanation, roughly shaking her head, "But-"

"You ran into the forest to save Hunter's life. I-", Connor cuts himself off for a second, "-we, did not think to thank you for that."

Connor wonders for a moment if he had the right to do that, to speak for Aveline as well as himself. She did ask him to talk to their student, although he thinks back to what Aveline said yesterday. About how she wasn't going to be Patience's mentor for much longer. Connor pulls his attention back to Patience, ignoring the sudden sourness he feels building in his mouth.

"Aveline and I are sorry, Patience."

She nods slowly, although Connor can see it on her face that there is still tension, an aversion in her eyes as she keeps her arms tightly wrapped around her legs. It occurs to him then how young she looks, wide eyes set in a bony face.

"It's… okay." She adds, voice wavering. It's like she's never been apologised to before, and she doesn't know what to do with it. There's more. There's more she wants to say. Connor wonders if he should press it. He considers what Aveline would do.

"Something is still wrong."

Patience's shoulders heave a little, and she tightens up further. Connor waits, and hopes that she'll let it go. Say what's on her mind.

"How do I… I mean-"

She swallows, and tries again, looking at Connor dead in the eye.

"Don't lie to me, now, okay?"

He manages to not question that, keeping his gaze steady.

"Can I be an Assassin?"

His forehead creases, "I believe you already are."

He hasn't said the right thing, because she starts shaking her head again. "Then why did you say I couldn't come with you to Boston?"

Connor looks down at the grass, considering. She's right to ask, he knows that. He pictures himself in her shoes, remembering those nights over ten years ago when he tended to sore bruises and ailments, his mind fixated on those targets that haunted his dreams, killed his mother over and over again. Achilles may have tried to dissuade him, persuade him to be patient, but he never said Connor couldn't do it, that he couldn't achieve his goals.

Those days were long over though. And now he was somewhat a mentor himself. On the other side, and it felt different. He'd been thrown into everything all his life, and he just didn't want to see it happen to Patience. To have the ground pulled from under her feet before she was ready to jump.

He can feel Patience fidgeting; he turns his vacant stare away from the ground.

"I was too…" the word appears, ugly and full of memory, "stern, when I said you were not ready yesterday. Of course, you are ready to come with me. But-"

Patience goes to interrupt, but he lightly holds up a hand.

"I sometimes believe that you lack faith in your own abilities, Patience. That you do not think you are good enough, and you doubt yourself."

Another stray thought attacks him, making him contemplate whether for a split second, he's actually talking about himself. The way Patience curls up even further, a blush lining her cheeks, tells him otherwise.

"You told me doubt was a healthy attribute for an Assassin." She counters with a snippy air.

"In some ways yes, but it is all about moderation. And a good balance with confidence."

He tries to ignore the hard look being thrown his way, keeping his posture, making sure that he's being as earnest as he feels.

"Even now, you still believe I would rather have your charm, more than you. That I have no interest in being your mentor."

"Not true…" she replies after a pause, but sounding unsure of what she says.

"Is it?"

"I don't-" she shrugs, jerky and agitated, "it's stupid."

Connor waits for her, knowing that something is difficult for her to talk about. He hopes he's doing whatever this is correctly this time.

"It's stupid." She says again, knees knocking together, "But I think sometimes that you're just gunna… dump me somewhere."

He doesn't get it, trying to figure out the words. He doesn't know what she means about 'dumping' her. Where and when would he ever do that?

"He used to tell me he would." Patience suddenly continues, illuminating what she means. "When I used to fight him, he'd say that he'd grab me in the night while I was still sleeping and leave me outside. That he'd make sure I'd get so lost in the woods I'd never find my way back and I would starve to death or worse. He said it a lot."

As she talks, relieving the memories, her legs continue to bounce, her hands twist and pull at each other. She's not looking at Connor, or anything. Almost like she's seeing something beyond. As Connor realises that she's talking about her childhood with Edmund Judge, he seems to mirror her anxiousness, his own nails digging into the backs of his hands again, a horror coiling up in his chest.

"Sometimes he'd get as far as dragging me out of bed…" her voice trails off, thin and high. She breaks out of her recollection though, glancing back at her mentor, the redness fading from her face in an exhausted form of anger.

"You know what was so shit about it all? It made me scared to leave the house. It made me wanna stay in the place I hated more than fucking anything. Bastard."

She doesn't say the insult like it's meant to damage, like it could inflict anything. Connor doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what could soothe her pain. He can't paint over her past, smooth it over like he wishes he could, but he couldn't yet smooth over his own.

"Patience, that will never happen to you as long as you are with me." He offers instead, "I would not-"

"I know, I know!"

The shouting snaps the tension. Patience unfolds herself, frustratingly slapping her hands down at her sides. Connor looks back at the ground, not wanting to provoke her further. It's not personal, or at least he doesn't think it is.

"But I think it, okay?" She goes on, "I can't help it."

"Well…" He finally thinks it's safe to look back up, "I hope you will have a little faith in me." He tilts his head, "as a mentor, I mean."

Patience stares at him like he's deluded, "I do. It's just… how can this last, eh? And what if there comes a time when you are sick of me and you don't want me as an Assassin anymore-"

"It will not happen." He knows that perhaps he is hovering near the edge of being too stern again, but this time he feels like he must. He must make her understand. "You are an Assassin, Patience. You are a part of the same Brotherhood as I. And because of that, I am sworn to protect you, as you are sworn to protect me."

"What if I can't do that? I couldn't protect her."

He's left in the dark again, doubtful about who she's talking about. He's about to say something about Aveline, but then he realises. He's not going to make Patience talk about her mother if she doesn't want to. Never in a million years.

"I couldn't do anything. Five years ago, I just watched. And Abbie…"

Patience's face seems to change in front of Connor's eyes. Minutes ago he was thinking about how young she was, but burdened with terrible things, the memories dancing in front of her eyes, she now looks older, so much older. Wearied.

"It was not your fault."

She sniffs, "I should've-"

"You were a child, and those people were cruel and merciless. They were more powerful than you, and there was nothing you could have done to save your mother. Nothing at all."

She recoils at his words, and he wonders if he's gone too far. He thinks of Aveline, knowing that he's probably echoing what she told him by the river, all those weeks ago. Back when he was locked into his own guilt. Saying the same things to Patience had proved her right, although it was not easy to accept. If Patience tried to argue with him now, say he was wrong, he'd understand. He was a lot older than her and still struggling with the idea that there was no control to be had in certain things, no matter how hard you tried to grasp it, to obtain it.

Instead, she says nothing, sniffing harder. He tries again, trying to remember what Aveline said.

"What happened was horrible. For them, and for you. But you are not to blame. You cannot be to blame."

Abruptly, Patience straightens up, making Connor think that she's going to get to her feet and walk off. He's ready to apologise, to try and calm her, but he doesn't need to. Rather, Patience looks at him again, a sense of conviction springing into her.

"It was him."

She doesn't have to say his name, and never will have to again, if needs be.

"It was. And he met his justice because of you and Aveline."

"He was still moaning about what I'd done to him, even at the end. You'd of think…"

She stops with a juddery sigh, sniffing again, squinting in the sunlight but not really. Connor can't let her dwell on something like that either. Death was never a subject for pondering on, even at the best of times.

"Patience, you will have the chance now to try and fight back where you couldn't before. I believe you can do it, but you must also share that with me. You must understand that your mother gave you more than just a charm."

Patience flinches at the mention of her mother, but holds herself. Connor smiles at her.

"She must have also left a lot of herself in you."

"You think so?" she manages to whisper back. Connor nods.

"As I said before, I did not want the charm for the Brotherhood. Neither did Aveline. We just wanted you."

He lets those words sit. Patience starts to shake a little, tears falling down her face, only the odd sniff really giving her away. Connor knows to let her cry, knowing somehow internally that something has passed. The anger, the tension, the overhaul of yesterday, all dissolved and melted away, like blowing a seeded dandelion into the air. He squeezes her shoulder, and she leans against his arm, fingers picking at the grass.

Nothing more is said because it isn't needed. Until Patience wipes her eyes and sits back up, slightly embarrassed by her own tears. Connor stands up at looks at the sky, seeing that it must be now past noon.

"We should go back to the house." He tells Patience quietly, although there's nobody around, "I want Doctor White to look at your hands."

Patience looks at her hands like she's never noticed them before, eyebrows raising at the state of them. Clumsily she stands up too, brushing herself down, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"We can continue training tomorrow." He adds, stretching his back which is stiff from having to sit still, "Perhaps we can even spar."

"Seriously?" Patience fires back, full of herself again, returning to the person Connor knew best. She grins wickedly, "Aren't you afraid of becoming bested, mentor?"

He chuckles, knowing that she'll try her absolute best to beat the crap out of him. They take their time walking back to the house, letting the sun soak into them, the smells of the late blooms and drying foliage infuse them. Connor's mind turns to idle things, like food, and amusing himself with the idea of Aveline stubbornly trying to refuse Doctor White's care in the same way she did with him. Perhaps she would be well enough to talk to Patience herself as well, today. He knew she would want to.

Patience announces their arrival as they step into the house, Connor shrugging off his coat. Immediately, Doctor White and Diana spring from Aveline's room, expectant looks on their faces. Doctor White approaches Connor directly, his smile a little too cheerful for the man usually.

"Ah, Connor!"

"Doctor White, if-"

"Can I have a word in private?"

Out the corner of his eye Connor can see Diana already grabbing Patience and taking her into the kitchen, saying something about needing a decent meal. Connor regards the Doctor briefly, before leading him into the study, closing the door behind them. Any tension that had left him on the amble back to the Homestead had now returned like a sudden swell, taking over.

"What is wrong?"

Doctor White flaps his hands, "No need to look so worried! Miss de Grandpre is doing fine, her temperature has evened out, and those wounds have been seen too. Now, when I say that she should rest completely for at least a day, I do mean it this time. No hopping out of bed under any circumstances- understood?"

Connor takes the scolding with dignity, still confused. Doctor White might have told him not be worried, but there is still a trace of apprehension surrounding the man as he regards Connor with a firm eye.

"I am relieved to hear that she is recovering."

"Indeed. She is asleep now, but will need something to eat when she wakes up in an hour or so. Give her something simple, with lots of water. Of course, I can ask Prudence-"

"No, that will not be necessary."

Connor spreads his hands out, wanting to get to the point. "Is there something else?"

"Yes. While you were out…"

Doctor White looks around him furtively, as if someone was about to jump out of the staircase. Then carefully, he reaches into his jacket, producing a stack of letters. He fans the three of them out, showing Connor, who walks towards him.

"Three letters for mademoiselle." Doctor White explains, "One arrived as they normally do, given to Corinne yesterday."

Doctor White plucks out the letter at the bottom and hands it over to Connor, who only has to briefly glance at it to see who it's from. He now recognises that handwriting on sight now, having passed on so many envelopes more frequently as of late. He turns it over, looking back at Doctor White.

"The other two" Doctor White waves them briefly, "came by a messenger about an hour ago who all but burst through the front door."

That catches Connor out, who immediately must look alarmed, as Doctor White quickly looks to appease him.

"Don't fret. Luckily I was in the hallway, as Diane was attending to Aveline, and got to him before he could enter the house properly."

Connor tries to squash his fear underfoot, "What did he look like?"

"Scrappy looking man, fair hair, hardly out of childhood. Dressed rather heavily for the weather, mind. Had quite the coat on."

"And he was after Aveline?"

"Quite. Naturally, I refused to let him in. Not only did I not want to disturb a patient's treatment, but this is your abode. I simply wouldn't dare allow a stranger in without your permission."

Connor bows his head in a gesture of gratitude, knowing that there's more to be told. Doctor White puffs himself up as he talks, enjoying the relaying of his tussle with the stranger.

"However the young man was not happy about that at all. In fact, he said some rather odd things, accusing me of having a lack of respect- would you believe it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not too sure myself. He was insistent that I fetch my 'mentor'. When I told him I had no idea what he was talking about, he got very angry and started speaking even more nonsense. I hardly understood a word-"

This time, panic grips Connor more tightly, and he goes rigid. The messenger must have been an Assassin, as he suspected already, but speaking such things to Doctor White was dangerous. Connor had worked hard to keep the Homesteaders unaware of the world he inhabited as much as possible, and this had potentially ruined everything. Had the messenger spoken to anyone else before coming to the house, and if so what did he say?

As Connor tries desperately divert Doctor White away from such talk, the man himself thankfully sees the fright on Connor's his face and knows he's stepped into something he should have. He stops himself, fussily realigning the lapels of his coat.

"Ah, anyway." He pretends to dust off an imaginary speck of dust on his shoulder, "I shooed him away at last, and he handed me these two remaining letters. He told me that Aveline had to read them immediately, and that she also had to give a response of a sort. Really, to quote the man verbatim-" Doctor White suddenly gives off an impression, bending forward and tossing his head, "'The situation cannot wait. She must go.'"

Doctor White then gives Connor a grin as he hands over the last two letters, clearly expecting some sort of praise for his performance, how it is lost. Connor is only thinking of what this could possibly mean. Something serious must have happened in New Orleans, but what? The letters now feel heavy in his hands, like they physically weigh the burden he knows they must carry. It was not good, especially after knowing what had happened in Boston merely days ago.

Doctor White notices how Connor is caught up in his own anxious considerations again, and approaches him, placing a hand on his shoulder and snapping him out of it.

"Connor." He starts carefully, putting into practice that well-honed considerate tone of a good doctor, "I've always known your work is of a… exceptional nature."

Connor narrows his eyes, knowing what the man implies. About that time when he came back to the Homestead, bloodied and battered and needing a hole in him to be fixed, mentally as well as physically. Doctor White had attended him, all the while trying to get him to talk about what had happened to him. He hadn't managed to break through the wall Connor had put up, and perhaps he knew from then on, he'd never be able to do it.

Doesn't mean that he still doesn't try.

"And in regards to Miss de Grandpre, I don't know fully what you two get up to behind closed doors—"

Connor feels his face unexpectedly turn hot, "Doctor White, I assure you—"

"But I acted on an instinct, and therefore I haven't given these letters to her. I decided that as her friend, it should fall to you."

He smiles again, and Connor mutters a small thank you, hoping that there's nothing else to discuss. Unfortunately, there is.

"However, I did want to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's a suggestion, actually. Wait three or four days before handing those letters over to her."

This was not something Connor was expecting, and he doesn't know what to say. At seeing the uncertainty, Doctor White generously elaborates, "I understand there is something happening at her home that needs her attention, but I am thinking of her health. You see, having attended to her more fully today, I noticed that she seems very run down."

"How so?"

"Specifically, she's tired and worn out. My guess is that she already things on her mind, and they are affecting her deeply."

This information twists disturbingly in Connor's thoughts, the letters still heavy in his grasp. Doctor White carries on, still speaking in a kind and open tone.

"I'm just thinking, that for the sake of her having a good recovery, that whatever these letters mean to bring, it can wait? Especially if it's to do with trouble all way down in New Orleans. Messages take days and days to arrive there as it is. What's a small delay worth?"

Doctor White looks sympathetically at Connor as he waits for an answer to his suggestion. Knowing that the man won't leave until he's said something, Connor once more tries hard to stamp down on what he's thinking, evening out his breathing and putting a competent face on.

"I will think about your recommendation, Doctor."

"Good." Doctor White sounds pleased, clapping his hands together, "All of us here happen to be rather fond of Miss Aveline now, you know."

Connor doesn't know what he means by saying that, but manages to show the Doctor to the door none the less. He returns to the privacy of the study to look at the letters properly, the two that came by the messenger. The Assassin insignia adorns the top of each one boldly in stinging red ink, highlighting their urgency. He thinks, although he's not sure, that one of them is again from Gerald, albeit the handwriting is more hurried and cramped on the envelope. The other one he doesn't recognise at all, and when he flips the back, the surname of the recipient is unknown to him- La Fleur. He's never dealt with anyone by that name.

He lays them out unopened on the table carefully, neatly lining them up. He scans the two from Gerald specifically, frowning. He's always noticed that letters from Gerald made Aveline react. Not dramatically, but Connor never missed the bothered way in which she took them from Corinne whenever they appeared. He didn't really think about it before, besides to worry that he was truly distracting her from her duties to the New Orleans Brotherhood, despite what she said otherwise.

The thoughts on distraction bring him back to Doctor White's suggestion. Originally, he wasn't even going to consider it. Assassin business could not be ignored, more so when two urgent letters were sent to a mentor. Already Connor thinks there is a connection between this development and Boston, the idea being sickening to him. And yet, in weighing the consequences, what would be of the greater importance?

He lets out a frustrated sigh, turning away from the desk to stare at the window. The sunshine seemed to pour in, almost in spite of Connor's concerns. Something was wrong with Aveline. The nightmares, the tiredness, it was all coming from a source she didn't want to talk, about. Did Connor have the right to intervene in her affairs though, and make a decision in regards to her health? There was no other way to describe it, if he put off giving these letters to her, then he would be concealing them. Hiding them away. That was not how an Assassin should operate, especially a mentor of all people. As a friend on the other hand… to give her a few days of peace, so she could heal. She would be better to work and fix whatever was wrong with her Brotherhood if she was well enough to start with…

There's a knock on the door. As if struck by lightning, Connor jumps, rushing over to the desk and picking up the letters. He hastily stuffs them into the top desk drawer just before Patience comes in, gabbling excitedly about how she needs to make soup for Aveline. Connor lets himself be lead into the kitchen, there in body as Patience clatters about, but actually mindfully still in that study, holding those letters.

Well, whatever he decides, he knows he can't do anything right now.


End file.
